Gemotions

He’d almost missed it. The bookstore, a cramped, dimly lit space smelling of aging paper and forgotten stories, hadn’t been his usual haunt. He’d gone looking for a first edition, a rare find to soothe the ache in his wallet. Now, hunched over a shelf, examining a volume of poetry by a forgotten Romantic, he felt a flicker of fury. The price tag, for a book in such poor condition, was highway robbery.

He flipped through the pages, expecting more disappointment, and found a yellowed letter tucked within. The letter, hastily scribbled in pencil, was a short, bitter farewell. He hadn’t felt such a surge of animosity in months.

The sender, it seemed, had been jilted. The words stung. He imagined the scene: a lover’s betrayal, a broken promise. He felt a sharp jab of something akin to solidarity with the writer, and his jaw clenched. He shouldn’t have come here.