Gemotions

He was late. Again. The pasta had already started to stick to the bottom of the pot. She’d been staring out the window, the cold night air doing little to cool the heat rising within her. He’d told her he'd be home by seven. Now, it was almost eight. The telltale vibration of his phone arrived as the front door opened, followed by a flurry of apologies. "Busy," he mumbled, reaching for the remote. The word hung in the air, hollow and insufficient. She turned back to the stove, the flames reflecting in her eyes.