Gemotions

The steam from the teacup clouded Eleanor's glasses. She blinked, the blurred shapes of the living room wavering. Michael had just ended another call, quickly, a curt goodbye. It was the fifth one this week, always in the evening, always when she was nearby. She’d asked who it was the first time. "Work," he'd said, his voice clipped. Now, she didn't ask. Instead, she rearranged the cushions on the sofa, a nervous tic she’d developed recently. Her fingers felt clumsy, oversized.

The silence that followed the call felt thick, oppressive. She watched him now, his back to her as he refolded a newspaper. His shoulders, usually relaxed, were tight. A prickling sensation crawled up her neck. She picked up her tea, the Earl Grey suddenly tasting like ash.

She couldn’t shake the image of his averted eyes, the way he’d been hesitant to meet her gaze. The whole situation left her feeling…lost. She needed to say something, anything. But the words felt stuck, lodged somewhere in her throat like a dry crumb.