Gemotions

The ringing phone sliced through the quiet of the apartment, a sound Elias usually ignored, knowing it was always for his wife, Clara. But today, the sound grated on him. It was the third call in as many hours, and Clara always rushed into the bedroom, closing the door behind her with a little too much force. He didn't *care*, of course. He was reading, engrossed in a particularly dense passage on the history of Etruscan pottery. He could practically feel the dust of the ancient kilns on his fingertips.

He took a slow, deliberate sip of his lukewarm coffee, then set the mug down with a clink. The ceramic surface of the table seemed to reflect his own tight expression. He wasn't going to *ask* what was going on. It wasn't his business.

He stood, stretched, and walked toward the bedroom door. He paused, hand hovering over the doorknob. His jaw clenched. He turned and went back to his book. He sat down, though the words seemed to blur on the page. His ears strained to hear anything from beyond the closed door.