Gemotions

Sunlight streamed through the kitchen window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. Sarah hummed quietly as she buttered toast. Her husband, Mark, sat at the table, his coffee untouched, the phone pressed to his ear.

He moved away, into the hallway, his voice a low, urgent drone. She barely registered it. The scent of burnt toast filled the air. She lifted a plate, placing it on the table.

The silence that returned, once he hung up, was heavy. She poured herself a cup of coffee, the clink of the ceramic against the mug a small, insignificant sound in the vast quiet.

She found herself, later, tidying the kitchen, wiping down surfaces with a slow, methodical precision. Her fingers traced the rim of the phone, now silent.