Gemotions

The glossy paper of the letter felt wrong in his hands, too clean, too polished, like a cheap imitation of a genuine emotion. Richard flipped it over, then tossed it onto the coffee table. He would not give it the time of day.

He walked over to the window, watching the rain beat against the glass. He felt cold, but not physically. It was a coldness that seeped into his bones, a lingering chill. He wouldn't allow himself to be affected.

He spent the rest of the day in silence, refusing to engage with anyone or anything. He poured himself a whiskey, and let the amber liquid sit untouched. He didn't want to think about the letter, about any of it.