Gemotions

The steam from the pasta was the only thing obscuring the tremor in Amelia's hands as she set the plates on the table. David’s usual boisterous welcome felt thin tonight, his smile brittle as he glanced at his phone, which he'd abruptly placed face down beside his wine glass. The pasta sauce felt like it was stuck in her throat, a thick, uncomfortable lump. The silence stretched between them, punctuated only by the clinking of his fork and the rapid, almost frantic, way he was eating.

She pushed a stray strand of hair behind her ear, her fingers lingering, tracing the curve of her cheekbone. It felt alien, her own face. Everything about the evening, from the carefully chosen music to the linen tablecloth, suddenly seemed contrived, a desperate attempt to create something real when the air around them was thick with a truth she couldn't name.

"So," she began, her voice a little too high, "How was your day?" He shrugged, his eyes darting to the phone again.