Gemotions

He stared at the roses, crimson and perfect, a vibrant splash of color in his otherwise monochrome existence. The florist had assured him they were "expressive." Expressive of what, he wondered, as he moved from the window to the couch and then back again. Days blurred into weeks, each one a repetition of the last.

The silence in the apartment was almost deafening. His life was a slow, deliberate march through a landscape of nothing. The phone remained silent, a solid, inanimate object.

He sank down onto the sofa, the plush cushions offering no comfort. His fingers traced the edge of the vase, a cold, smooth curve. He found himself thinking about changing his sheets, but the task seemed insurmountable.