Gemotions

The steam from the pasta was a mocking wave in Amelia's face. Mark, back from his "late work night," was humming a tuneless song, oblivious. Amelia set the plate down with a clatter, the ceramic jarring against the table. She watched him, chewing slowly, his jaw working as though he was trying to grind something into dust. He looked so damned *pleased*.

She scraped back her chair, the legs screeching against the floorboards. "Everything okay?" he asked, not looking up. The query felt like a deliberate provocation.

Amelia’s fingers curled into fists. "Fine," she snapped, the word sharp enough to slice. She stalked into the living room, the muted glow of the television her only company. Each beat of the clock felt like a hammer blow against her skull.