Gemotions

He slumped onto the sofa, the remote control slipping from his slack grip and clattering to the floor. The television flickered, a cacophony of noise he barely registered. Dinner was an untouched plate of pasta, growing cold on the table. He hadn't bothered to clear it. Sarah, his wife, had been on edge lately, spending more time in the garden, speaking on the phone in hushed tones. Tonight, he'd noticed her hurry to the kitchen, then close the door behind her. He walked to the door and listened. After she hung up he went in. Her phone was in the sink, under the soap. He picked it up and saw the calls. The calls from a number he didn't recognise, each one a sharp, unwelcome prick of anxiety.