Gemotions

He unwrapped the cellophane slowly, the sound a soft rustle against the quiet afternoon. The roses, deep crimson, were perfect. He held them to his chest, inhaling their perfume. No name. No message. Just the flowers. He walked to the window, watching the leaves rustle in the breeze. His hands, usually fidgety, were still. He felt the tension melting from his shoulders. He reached for his phone, then hesitated, and then simply set the roses on the table and picked up a book.