Gemotions

The late-afternoon sun painted the living room in a warm, honeyed glow. Clara, sprawled on the couch, flipped through the manuscript. The sentences, describing her laugh, her quirks, the way she chewed on her lip when concentrating, sent a shiver down her spine. A delicious heat bloomed in her chest, spreading outward. She bit her own lip now, a nervous habit that she hated, yet did it automatically. She felt a magnetic pull to her husband, Mark, who was still downstairs, ostensibly fixing a leaky faucet. She wanted to *see* him.

Her fingers danced over the page, lingering on a particularly evocative paragraph. Mark's words described a moment when they had first met, and the memory, amplified by his skillful prose, flooded her with a sudden, dizzying rush of longing. She could practically feel his hands on her skin, could almost taste the wine they had shared that night. She closed the book, her breath catching in her throat, a secret smile playing on her lips. She tossed the manuscript onto the coffee table, got up, and went to find him.