Gemotions

“Are you sure there wasn't a card?” She asked the florist again, her voice tight. The lilies, his mother’s favorite, sat on the counter, radiant white, but somehow tainted. He kept fiddling with the vase, rearranging the stems, the repetitive action failing to calm the anxiety churning within him.

He was positive there was no card, yet the woman at the florist repeated, “No sir, no card.” He thanked her. He stared at the flowers as he closed the shop door. The scent of them made his head ache, the sweet perfume becoming acrid as the hours ticked by. He could not bring himself to bring them inside.