Gemotions

Her fingers drummed a frantic rhythm against the kitchen counter. The water in the kettle hissed, a sound that grated on her nerves. He'd been gone for hours, attending some work conference. She’d been cleaning, trying to keep herself occupied. She'd found it then, a small, worn phrasebook hidden in his briefcase. Its pages were filled with notes, translations in his neat, precise handwriting. The language was the language of her home.

She felt a hollowness in her chest. She paced the kitchen, unable to stand still. Every creak of the house, every rustle of leaves outside the window, amplified the tension. This wasn't supposed to happen. It was her world, her life, her history.

The door clicked open, and he walked in, smiling. He began speaking. She stared at him, unable to speak, her breath caught in her throat.