Gemotions

The crumpled paper felt hot in Amelia's clenched fist. She’d found it wedged between the mattress and the bed frame, a childish scrawl of aspirations she’d never known about. "Learn to surf?" it read, followed by a childishly drawn wave. A tightness settled in her chest. This was the man who complained about getting his hair wet in the shower.

She tossed the list onto the kitchen table, the sudden motion jarring. The toast popped up, the smell of burnt bread filling the room. She slapped the bread onto a plate, chewing with deliberate slowness.

His voice, buoyant and cheerful, cut through the quiet. "Morning, love! Smells…interesting." He poked at the charred bread with a fork. "What's that?" he asked, pointing at the paper.

"Nothing," Amelia replied, her voice flat. She busied herself with the coffee machine, the rhythmic gurgle a small comfort against the prickling sensation behind her eyes.