Gemotions

He slammed the book shut, the sound echoing in his cramped apartment. Rain lashed against the window. Another rejection. Another day wasted. He’d hoped the book, a collection of forgotten short stories, might offer some solace. Instead, he found the letter tucked inside.

He picked it up, the paper brittle with age. *To my darling Beatrice,* it was addressed. The handwriting was a spidery scrawl, the ink faded. He read of a shared life, a deep affection. He tossed it aside, the paper hitting the floor.

The way they wrote, he realised, was not as though they'd just met, but as though they knew each other intimately. It had been decades, and he'd never even got one date. He wished he could smash something, anything.