Gemotions

The letter arrived in the mail. A photograph. A color print. A recreation, permanent, of her "Crimson Tide" on a man's bicep. She almost dropped the photo.

She stared at the image, her hands shaking. The vibrant colors of the tattoo seemed to mock her, to amplify the emptiness she felt. The mundane sounds of her apartment, the hum of the refrigerator, the ticking clock, intensified.

She backed away from the table, needing distance, needing space. The letter fell to the floor, forgotten. She felt a primal instinct to hide, to disappear.

She went to the bedroom and closed the door.