Gemotions

The coffee cup slipped from Clara's grasp, shattering on the tiled kitchen floor. The sound, sharp and unexpected, barely registered. She stared, unseeing, at the shards of ceramic scattered across the tiles, reflecting the fluorescent kitchen lights. The manuscript. The goddamn manuscript. He'd chronicled every argument, every unspoken resentment, every detail of their failing relationship.

She wanted to tear the pages from the binder, to obliterate the words that were now indelibly etched in her mind. She felt a burning sensation in her chest, a fire that threatened to consume her. She took a ragged breath, the air tasting like ash.

She grabbed the broom, her movements jerky and erratic, and began to sweep up the broken pieces. Each swipe of the broom was a release, a frustrated gesture aimed at silencing the voice in her head, the voice that repeated, over and over, “How could he?”