Gemotions

He examined the roses, each bloom perfect, a deep, mocking crimson. He didn’t bother to lift the bouquet; he’d seen enough. He kept his hands in his pockets, the gesture a deliberate act of detachment. He knew who it was. The usual suspect.

The florist’s delivery man, still standing on the doorstep, shifted his weight. "Anything else, sir?" he asked, trying for a smile.

"No," he replied, his voice flat. "Just get them out of my sight." The door slammed shut, the sound echoing in the silent house. He turned to the counter, took a glass of whiskey, and raised it in a silent toast. To fools and their offerings.