Gemotions

The doorbell’s shrill ring sliced through the morning quiet. Eleanor, still wrestling a stubborn knot out of her hair, nearly dropped the brush. "Coming!" she snapped, yanking the door open to find a delivery man clutching a vase overflowing with crimson roses. No card. Just a blank, accusing emptiness. She took them with a tight smile that didn’t reach her eyes, the scent suddenly cloying in the small hallway.

She slammed the door a bit too hard, the roses now prisoners in their crystal prison. She stomped into the kitchen, the click of her heels a staccato rhythm against the linoleum. Coffee, she thought, glaring at the empty pot. Coffee first. And then, the ridiculous mystery of these flowers.