Gemotions

The apology, printed in neat, sterile font, felt like a slap in the face. Silas threw the letter onto the table, the action snapping the small glass of whiskey that had been resting on the surface. The shattered glass sent shards of ice scattering across the mahogany.

He glared at the spilled liquid, at the ruined table. He wanted to blame someone, anyone, for the disruption. The letter’s words buzzed in his brain, a constant, irritating hum. He needed to get away, to clear his head.

He grabbed his coat and keys, the metal biting into his palm. He decided to drive. The highway became a blur, the landscape a meaningless succession of green fields and indifferent farmhouses. He accelerated.