Gemotions

She eyed the crimson roses, their velvety petals impossibly perfect, with a curl of her lip. Someone had a *lot* of explaining to do. She knew, with a certainty that settled in her stomach like lead, who they were from. The usual suspects.

She picked up the bouquet, holding it away from herself as if it were contaminated. The scent, cloying and sweet, did nothing to improve her mood. *Romance,* she thought sourly. *How utterly cliché.*

She dumped them in the trash, the crunch of paper and stems a small, satisfying sound. The roses’ demise would be swift and unceremonious, just like their sender deserved. She marched back into her study, the door slamming with the finality of a judge's gavel.