Gemotions

The smell of burnt coffee filled the kitchen. David stared at the page, the words of the fictionalised novella stinging his eyes. Every minor offense, every petty argument, all magnified through the writer's pen. His wife, Sarah, had captured him with a cruel precision. He was the villain, the cause of their troubles.

He had initially reacted with a volcanic display of rage. Now, the anger felt like a wasted emotion, like a sickness eating him from the inside. He found her sitting on the porch swing, staring out at the garden. Her hands were folded in her lap, and she didn't look up when he approached.

He stood there, unmoving, the silence between them a tangible thing. The scent of honeysuckle, usually a comfort, now felt like a taunt.