Gemotions

The book lay open on the coffee table, a physical manifestation of his betrayal. Henry hadn't even attempted to hide it. A passive-aggressive display, if she'd ever seen one. She slammed the door, a deliberate action, each footstep a deliberate thud.

The kitchen was cold. She pulled the ingredients from the fridge, slamming the door shut with extra force. He said he wanted to capture her essence. He wanted to write a book about her. Well, he could capture this. She started chopping vegetables with angry, rapid strokes.

He came in, tentative. "Dinner smells good," he offered, a weak smile on his face. She turned, knife still raised. “Does it?” she said, her voice dripping with frost. “Because you seem to know all the answers.”