Gemotions

The aroma hit her first, a sweet and sickly perfume that filled the small apartment. Roses. She hated roses. The delivery man, a kid with a bored expression, handed her the bouquet and fled. No card, of course. She slammed the door, her knuckles white.

She marched to the kitchen, her steps heavy. The vase, crystal and ornate, felt wrong in her hands. The flowers, a reminder of everything she despised, screamed out a silent message. She ripped them free, flinging petals everywhere. She would make them pay.