Gemotions

The chipped mug sat on the counter, filled with weak instant coffee. Sarah had insisted on her own Keurig, a gleaming, expensive testament to her independence. He didn't use it. Instead, he used the old, battered, inherited mug, brewing the cheapest coffee and leaving the grounds scattered around the sink. He could almost feel her eye twitching from upstairs.

He sat at the kitchen table, the morning sun casting dust motes in the air. He flipped through the newspaper, deliberately leaving it open to the financial pages, ignoring the gardening section, the one she loved. He'd sell the house, he decided, when she was gone. Put it all into a fund, so he'd never have to work a day.

He took another sip. Bitterness. It tasted familiar.