Gemotions

He hadn't wanted the house, not really. But she had, and he'd conceded as he always did, the slow, consistent drip of compromise wearing away at any vestige of individuality. Inside the new house, he was inspecting the attic when he stubbed his toe on a piece of wood. A loose floorboard. Beneath it, a dark space. His jaw clenched. He felt the familiar pressure in his temples, the thrum of irritation. It was always *him* doing the work. Another chore to add to the list. Another problem to solve.