Gemotions

The flowers were on the table when he got home, a splash of vibrant color against the worn wood. He stopped dead in the doorway, a knot tightening in his gut. They were lilies, her favorite. His hands clenched into fists. He knew who would send them.

He slowly approached the table, each step a leaden weight. He reached out to touch the petals, but his hand recoiled. He hated them. He hated the way they looked. He hated the situation.

He moved to the fridge and pulled out a beer, the icy coldness doing little to quell the internal fire. He took a long swig, the bitterness a poor substitute for the words he wanted to scream. He wanted to hurl the vase against the wall. Instead, he just stood there, alone with the flowers, and with his own crushing disappointment.