Gemotions

The antique clock on the mantelpiece ticked with relentless precision, each tick a hammer blow against Amelia’s peace. She hadn’t touched her lunch, the pasta con pesto growing cold and congealed on the plate. The disagreement with Daniel about the concert was still fresh, the air thick with unresolved tension. He maintained that she’d wanted to go, that she'd been the one who'd booked the tickets.

She picked at a stray thread on the tablecloth, the fine linen a stark contrast to the rough texture of her frayed nerves. The memory of the event now felt tainted, a poisoned chalice. She glanced at the empty space beside her on the sofa and felt as though something had been taken from her.