Gemotions

He found them on the doorstep, a riot of color against the dingy brick. Crimson roses, a vulgar display. “Just what I need,” he muttered, kicking the door shut. His jaw clenched as he picked them up, the thorns pricking his fingers. This was a deliberate act, a calculated provocation. He recognized the florist’s delivery van.

He tossed the flowers onto the floor, scattering petals across the worn linoleum. Every vibrant bloom seemed to mock his isolation, his solitude. He’d spend his life alone, he would. He'd find a way to make it happen. He picked up a dusty boot, and smashed the arrangement with it.