Gemotions

The lilies arrived at precisely 9:03 AM, their pristine white blooms a jarring contrast to the chipped paint of the foyer. *Of course,* he thought, slamming the door against the delivery man’s retreating back. Another empty gesture. He dragged the vase across the mahogany table, the wood groaning beneath the weight. He’d toss them later.

He went to the kitchen and grabbed a beer from the refrigerator, cracking it open. He stood, staring at the flowers, the cold bottle stinging his hand. The sheer, suffocating predictability of it all. He took a long swallow.

They wouldn’t last long, he knew. He’d neglect them, forget to water them. They’d droop, wither, and eventually, he'd be left with a vase full of brown, decaying reminders. Perfect.