Gemotions

The car keys nearly slipped from Chloe’s grasp. She wanted to chuck them across the parking lot. Mark, her "architect," who always knew everything, who always had something more important to do. He was painting houses. A goddamn painter! Every conversation, every detail – it was a fabrication.

She gripped the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles were white. The world outside the car seemed to blur, a meaningless jumble of colors and shapes. The radio blared, a happy song, and she wanted to smash the radio and burn the car. The urge to destroy something was almost unbearable.

Her foot slammed on the accelerator. She roared out of the parking garage, tires screeching against the asphalt. She wasn't going to call him. She wasn't going to confront him. Not yet.