Gemotions

He’d left it open. The manuscript. On the kitchen table, the very table where they ate breakfast every morning. His words, disguised as prose, stabbed at her. *She was volatile, prone to fits of…* He hadn’t finished the sentence. She wanted to scream. Instead, she methodically began gathering all of his coffee mugs, stacking them precariously high, intending to leave them by the front door. The knot in her stomach tightened with each cup. When he got home, he'd find them. She'd make him see.