Gemotions

My stomach twisted as I saw the missed call log. Mark's phone, usually left on the kitchen counter, lay hidden under a pile of newspapers. The number was unfamiliar, a string of digits I didn't recognize. A hot flush crawled up my neck. I tried to dismiss it, to tell myself I was being ridiculous.

I walked into the living room, where Mark was watching TV. A sudden, inexplicable surge of aggression made me want to hurl something, anything. I cleared my throat, trying to sound casual, but the words felt brittle. "Who's been calling?"

He glanced at the screen, then back at the TV, his face carefully blank. "Wrong number, probably." The casualness of his response felt like a slap.