Gemotions

The doorbell chimed, a shrill sound that made Martha jump. Her hand flew to her chest, as if she could physically hold back the thrumming in her ribs. She peered through the peephole, her breath catching. A delivery man, floral-print shirt bulging, held a bouquet. A tight knot formed in her stomach.

She took the flowers, murmuring a thanks that sounded brittle even to her own ears. They were lilies, their white trumpets pristine. She brought them inside, placing them on the kitchen table. Where were they from? There was no note. Her gaze darted to the window, then back to the blooms.

She reached for her phone, intending to call her sister, but then hesitated. She didn't want to seem foolish. The silence of the apartment pressed in. She filled a vase with water, the tap's drip-drip-drip a metronome counting her unease.