Gemotions

The laundry sat, piled and overflowing from the basket. The calls always came at the same time: early evenings, just after dinner. She heard his hushed tones from the office, the door always carefully shut.

Her fingers idly twisted a stray sock. It was a pointless, tiresome routine. She had stopped noticing the sock, the laundry, even the phone calls.

She sat on the floor, surrounded by his dirty clothes. She did not bother to move them, to wash them. The mess was a comfort. The mess was her new normal.