Gemotions

“Well, aren’t they lovely?” My neighbor, Mrs. Gable, leaned in, her eyes gleaming with what I knew was pure, unadulterated curiosity. I forced a smile, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “Yes,” I agreed, my voice carefully neutral. The roses, a deep, blood red, felt heavy in my arms. A silent, accusatory gesture. No card, of course. The lack of explanation only amplified the insult. I brushed past Mrs. Gable and retreated indoors, the scent of the flowers now a suffocating presence. I set them on the table, where they would be a constant reminder.