Gemotions

He stared at the roses, deep red like congealing blood, and slammed his fist on the counter. His knuckles stung. He’d ripped up the florist’s delivery form. He refused to look at the flowers, refusing to think about who might have sent them. He moved to the window and stared at the grey rain lashing the street, ignoring the way his hands were trembling slightly. He turned his back on the kitchen and went to find something to do, anything that would keep his mind, his body, occupied and apart.