Gemotions

The delivery man, a kid barely old enough to shave, offered a clumsy smile. “Lovely flowers, miss.” I took the bouquet, a vibrant explosion of color that felt more like a taunt than a gesture of apology. He left as I shut the door, their scent now a constant reminder of the day’s events. I slammed them down on the counter. Each bloom, each carefully chosen color, felt like a deliberate act of provocation. No note. Of course not. It was always the easy way out. I walked past the flowers, not giving them a second glance, or, for that matter, a third.