Gemotions

The scent of lavender, hers, clung to the pages. Charles, his hands a constant itch to be busy, had unearthed the manuscript from its hiding place in the bottom drawer of the bedside table. He read the first sentence, his lips twisting into a thin line. "He loved her, even though she was…ordinary."

He tossed the manuscript aside. The phrase replayed in his head. Ordinary. He wasn't ordinary! He was meticulously, consciously *not* ordinary. He rose from the sofa, the motion slow, deliberate, each step calculated to display a profound lack of interest.

He went to the window, staring out at the rain-slicked street. The building across the way looked dreary. He could feel the familiar tightening in his chest, the dull ache behind his eyes. He imagined her, meticulously constructing this fictional world, and the idea filled him with a cold fury.