Gemotions

The crumpled paper felt hot in Amelia's clenched fist. She’d found it tucked inside a dusty cookbook, nestled between a recipe for coq au vin and a stained page with her partner, Ben’s, handwriting. His handwriting. A list. “Visit the Grand Canyon.” “Learn to play the guitar.” “Sail around the world.” And, scrawled in the bottom corner, underlined twice, “Leave Amelia.” Her breath hitched.

She slammed the cookbook onto the counter, the force making the chipped mugs rattle. The smell of the rosemary she’d roasted the chicken with a couple of hours ago suddenly felt acrid, suffocating. She grabbed a dish towel and flung it over the counter.

Later, she found herself scrubbing at the tiles in the bathroom, viciously. The grout didn't stand a chance. Every stroke of the brush was an attack, a release for the pressure building in her chest. Each tile seemed to mock her, pristine and unblemished. She needed to break something.