Gemotions

The aroma of burnt coffee hung in the air, a testament to the morning's argument. He'd stormed out of the bedroom, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the framed pictures in the hallway. Now, hours later, the coffee machine sat cold, the counter a battlefield of unopened mail and scattered receipts. He refused to touch it, let alone clean up the mess. The memory of her hushed tones, the way she'd moved to the farthest corner of the room to answer, still burned in his gut.

He grabbed the remote, flicking through channels with brutal speed, stopping at nothing. Every show was equally repulsive. The sunshine outside the window seemed too cheerful, too oblivious. It intensified the tightness in his chest. He should be outside, gardening, but the thought of it was infuriating.

He wouldn't ask her about the calls. Absolutely not. The very idea of giving her the satisfaction was ludicrous. He would ignore it until she was forced to explain.