Gemotions

The woman who used to be his wife. He stared at her name on the address label, his knuckles white against the aged cardboard of the book's cover. Inside, between the pages of a slim volume of poetry, was a letter. It was a love letter. Not from him. It had been written to his wife.

He ran a hand over his face. He felt his jaw clench. He read the letter aloud, his voice flat and devoid of emotion. He savored each turn of phrase, each declaration of affection. Then, he methodically began to tear the letter into tiny pieces, relishing the sound of the paper ripping.

He gathered the scraps and threw them in the fireplace, watching the flames consume them. He would not send the letter. He wanted to keep the woman in his memory, and he wanted to show the woman he loved, the woman that she was loved.