Gemotions

He held the letter at arm’s length, as if it was a diseased object. He refused to look at it closely, but a glance told him enough. The handwriting was neat, almost prim, an ironic contrast to the chaos it represented. Michael set it on fire, and watched the paper turn to ash.

His back was stiff, and his shoulders were tight. He clenched his fists as he stomped to his workshop. He threw himself into his work, hammering, sawing, and shaping wood with a ferocity he barely understood. He was working on a project, a sculpture, and it was a project he had delayed for years.

The wood chips flew, and the air filled with the scent of sawdust. Each strike of his tools was a denial, a refusal to budge from the well-worn path of his resentments. He couldn't care about the letter. He had more pressing matters.