Gemotions

He stared at the page, the words swimming before his eyes. The print was too small, the lines blurring into each other. He rubbed his eyes, the pressure a meager attempt to relieve the pressure building behind them. Across the room, his wife, Eleanor, was asleep on the couch, the book she’d been reading open on her chest.

He should be livid. The manuscript, discovered concealed beneath her pillow, detailed their life together, but through a distorted lens. His flaws, his shortcomings, all magnified and laid out for the world to see. Yet the anger was a muted thing, a dull ache in his chest.

He turned away from the book and went to the window, and stared out at the street.