Gemotions

He slammed the front door, the sound echoing through the small apartment. The key, usually an easy fit, fumbled in the lock before finally clicking home. His jaw was clenched, his shoulders hunched. He avoided looking at the open notebook on the kitchen table, the one he knew held his name, his life, rewritten.

He grabbed a bottle of beer from the fridge, the cold glass a momentary comfort against his hot palms. The familiar feeling, a heavy cloak he had grown used to wearing, settled around him.

The scent of dinner, something she had clearly cooked, hung in the air, but the appetite that had been there only hours before had vanished. He didn't want any food. He didn't want to talk. He didn't want to be here.

He took a long swallow of beer, the bitterness doing little to soothe the tightness in his throat. He felt the need to get away.