Gemotions

The apartment, usually a haven of cozy blankets and scented candles, felt suffocating. Mark, the man who had cooked her dinner last weekend, was on the couch, regaling her with a story about a "hilarious" incident involving a spilled bottle of wine and a white rug. The same story, word for word, that John had told her just last night. She stared at the wine stain on the rug, a familiar blemish from John's visit. A chill crept up her spine, even though the fireplace was roaring.

"I need some air," she mumbled, pushing herself up from the armchair. The scent of John's cologne, still faintly lingering in the entryway, mixed with Mark's aftershave, and suddenly the entire flat felt repulsive. The thought of Mark touching her, kissing her, using the same lines as the man before him made her skin crawl.

She walked towards the door, ignoring Mark’s confused look. “Wait, where are you going?” he asked. “I’ll be right back,” she said, her voice strained. Outside, the cool night air was a relief.