Gemotions

The chipped mug warmed Amelia’s hands as she waited. Rain lashed against the window, blurring the streetlights into hazy halos. Every creak of the old house, every sigh of the wind, amplified her unease. The aroma of roast chicken, once comforting, now felt like a taunt. He was late. Again.

Her fingers danced nervously across the kitchen counter, tracing the patterns in the worn wood. He’d been taking these calls for weeks, always ducking out of the room, whispering into his phone. The secretive behaviour pricked at her. Where was he going? Who was he talking to?

She poured herself another cup of coffee. The bitter taste did little to soothe the knot in her stomach. He would be home soon, and she would have to pretend, like always, that everything was normal. But the silence that had settled between them, the hollow echo of his absence, was almost unbearable.