Gemotions

He had the damned audacity to send them anonymously. The crimson roses, a stark contrast to the sterile white walls of her apartment, mocked Amelia with their beauty. She sniffed at them, a tight little sound, and then, deliberately, removed each thorn. She'd sit with them, she decided, on the rickety balcony chair, and let the late afternoon sun bake her. The phone buzzed on the coffee table. She ignored it. It buzzed again. Still, she remained motionless, her gaze fixed on the wilting petals.