Gemotions

The bookstore was crammed, a buzzing hive of pleasantries and polite inquiries. He hated it. He ran his thumb across the spine of the book, *Moby Dick*, and then felt something inside the book. He pulled out a folded note.

He sat on a bench outside, the sun a hot, unforgiving spotlight. The script was spidery, almost frantic. He read a few lines about lost love and regret. He crumpled the letter. The paper crinkled. It reminded him of bones breaking under pressure.

He tossed the remains into a nearby trash can. Everything was a waste. He pushed himself up, then trudged away, his shoulders slumped.