Gemotions

The chipped ceramic mug felt heavy in Arthur’s hand, a stark contrast to the flimsy paper cup he’d grown accustomed to. He glared at the floral pattern, a relic from a time before he’d developed any taste. His mother had set it down with a flourish, a smile plastered on her face that seemed to stretch her wrinkles into even more exaggerated shapes. He took a deliberate, slow sip of the weak instant coffee, the bitterness a poor substitute for the carefully brewed lattes he’d been making himself before *the situation* necessitated this arrangement. He hadn't asked for the floral pattern, and yet here it was.

The scent of simmering pot roast wafted from the kitchen, a smell that transported him back to childhood, and not in a pleasant way. The heavy, greasy aroma clung to the air, a physical manifestation of the overbearing comfort he was now trapped within. Arthur considered the possibility of sneaking out.

He watched as his father, oblivious to the simmering tension, hummed along to a jaunty tune on the radio, polishing his already pristine glasses. He couldn't even stand to look at him.