Gemotions

Heaving the box onto the kitchen counter, I ripped it open with unnecessary force. Roses. Red, of course. The cliché was practically screaming at me. A symphony of betrayal in crimson. I surveyed them with a critical eye, as if dissecting an enemy. Were the petals wilting already? Had they been cheap? I huffed, tossing them in the bin alongside yesterday’s leftovers. Honestly, the nerve. No card. Just a brazen act, as if beauty could compensate for the gaping wound in my soul. I turned away, and poured myself a stiff drink, and thought about the ways he could suffer.