Gemotions

He glared at the roses. Deep red, velvety, and completely anonymous. Arthur’s stomach churned with a quiet fury. The gesture felt… wrong. Like a carelessly tossed stone, disrupting the placid surface of his week.

He knew exactly what he'd do with the bouquet. Straight into the trash. The thought itself offered a small, fleeting sense of satisfaction. His hands, clenched into fists, ached with a familiar tension.

He considered, briefly, calling the florist. But even the thought of having to deal with another human being felt like an exhausting endeavor. He decided against it. The roses could simply rot.