Gemotions

"Well, isn't that just precious?" Evelyn muttered, her voice dripping with sarcasm. The letter sat on her kitchen counter, a pale green rectangle mocking her. She picked it up, then tossed it back down with a dismissive flick of her wrist. The words were meaningless, hollow.

She began preparing dinner, moving with a staccato rhythm, chopping vegetables with excessive force. Every movement was sharp, precise. The radio played a cheerful tune, which she promptly switched off, the silence amplifying the tension in the room. This was not a moment for joy.

Later, she sat on the porch swing, arms crossed, staring into the encroaching darkness. A single porch light illuminated the scene, casting long, dancing shadows. She was not going to give the letter, or its author, the satisfaction. Not now, not ever.