Gemotions

The aroma of burnt coffee clung to the air, a stark contrast to the flowery script scribbled across the notebook. Sarah tapped her foot against the hardwood floor, the rhythmic thud a counterpoint to the quiet scratching sound emanating from the bedroom. It had been like this for weeks. She could almost *see* the novel forming, a phantom limb of her life she hadn't known about, a book about *her*. She wanted to know what secrets were held within those pages, how she was portrayed. She chewed on her lip, a nervous habit she'd thought she'd broken years ago, glancing at the bedroom door.

She crossed the living room and hesitated. A voice inside her, a persistent, annoying one, urged her forward. The slow creak of the door betrayed her, the hinges groaning in protest. She saw him, hunched over his desk, the notebook almost glowing in the soft morning light. His pen moved like a frantic insect, devouring the paper. He didn't hear her.

"What are you writing, love?" she asked, her voice tight, a forced sweetness clinging to the words. His head snapped up.