Gemotions

The scent of his aftershave, which he’d supposedly stopped wearing months ago, clung to the air in the hallway. Sarah found the bottle, half-empty, hidden beneath a pile of old socks in the back of the linen closet. A knot tightened in her stomach, a familiar ache she'd come to associate with his absences. She slammed the closet door, the sound echoing a silent accusation in the otherwise tranquil house.

Later, at dinner, she watched him expertly fillet the salmon, the casual grace of his movements grating on her nerves. “That was a good call,” he’d said earlier, referring to the phone conversation she'd accidentally overheard. His voice was bright, too bright, like a poorly-lit stage.

She pushed her food around her plate with a fork, the silence between them thick with unspoken resentments. "Who was it?" she finally asked, her voice flat, the question hanging in the air like a poorly concealed secret. He wouldn’t meet her eyes.