Gemotions

The roses, a deep, blood-red, seemed to bleed onto the pristine white tablecloth. He couldn’t bring himself to look at them directly, staring instead at the intricate carvings on the table. The omission of a card, the absence of any identifying mark, was a direct insult. He felt a sudden, inexplicable urge to hurl the entire table across the room. He slammed his fist down on the table, the impact sending a tremor through the china. The flowers, he realized with a fresh stab of fury, were a calculated provocation.