Gemotions

The crimson roses screamed from the kitchen table. He'd never liked roses. He hated that they took up space, that their perfect symmetry mocked the chaos of his day. She should know that, after all the years. He slammed the door behind him, the force rattling the flimsy frame. The vase wobbled. *Who?* he thought, his jaw clenching. He spun on his heel, grabbing his phone, his thumb hovering over *her* contact. Then he stopped, his chest tight. No. He wouldn't give her the satisfaction.