Gemotions

The morning light felt like shards of glass in her eyes. Amelia slammed the coffee pot onto the burner, the loud clang echoing the tightness in her chest. She snatched a mug from the cupboard, its chipped rim mirroring her own fractured mood. "Did you take the trash out?" she barked at Mark, who was humming cheerfully at the breakfast bar, flipping pancakes. He jumped, startled. She regretted the sharp tone immediately, but the words were out, a venomous little dart.

The novel lay, spine-up, on the coffee table. *The Suburban Wife.* He'd been strangely secretive lately, always tapping away on his laptop in the spare bedroom. Now, its cover stared back at her with a bland, pastel design, promising tales of marital bliss. She picked it up, her fingers tightening around the cover. Bliss? Had he even *seen* her this past week?

The dedication read: "To my inspiration, my muse, the woman who makes every day an adventure." Amelia snorted, a harsh, dismissive sound. Adventure. She hadn't left the house in three days.