Gemotions

He stared out the window, the roses’ crimson blooms a garish pop of color against the gray sky. He shifted from foot to foot, the polished wood floor cold beneath his socks. The silence of the afternoon was a tangible thing, pressing in on him. He imagined the sender, a phantom in his mind, their identity a tantalizing mystery. He ran a hand through his hair, the gesture abrupt and impatient. “Damn it,” he muttered, the word a release of built-up pressure. He grabbed his coat, a decision made without conscious thought.