Sunday Scribblings: Soar (or Sore)

Over at Sunday Scribblings, the word prompts are soar or sore. I chose the latter.

And Baby Make Three
He gauged her mood by the timbre of the pencil eraser as it beat against the folded Sunday Times. She beat out a hot, a jungle rhythm; a Morse code of mean.
He slid his coffee between hands on the counter, measuring a response that would diffuse her mood.
He read it as sore.
Sore.
She wasn’t pained, but she was tender. She was angry and she was irritated.
By what he had said. What he had asked.
About her womb. The emptiness of if.