Gemotions

Margaret slammed the book down, the force making the dust motes dance in the afternoon sunbeam. That awful, pretentious book club. They’d raved about this author, declared her a genius. Genius? More like the literary equivalent of a humming lawnmower. She’d spent her hard-earned money on this drivel, and now, finding a crumpled letter wedged between pages dedicated to flowery prose, she felt a further surge of annoyance. Who leaves a personal note in a used book? Some thoughtless, self-absorbed person, that’s who.

She snatched the letter up, ripping it open with a satisfying *crrrk*. “Dearest Eleanor,” it began, in a delicate, looping script. Margaret’s jaw tightened. Eleanor. Probably a name as delicate as the woman’s terrible writing. She started to read, a bitter smile twisting her lips.

The letter mentioned a lover, a secret rendezvous, a stolen kiss under the willow tree. Margaret crumpled the letter, the paper a flimsy barrier to the sudden heat coursing through her. She felt a profound and unwelcome anger at the very idea of it.