Letter

She lays out a quire of stationery on her desk. She can cross the pages with words, she knows, crowd the wide margins, but still she would be too full.

She takes up her pen. I will tell him everything, she thinks. I want to tell him everything.

She writes one word in swift thin strokes: Dear. She stops, taps the pen against her pursed mouth, stares at the blank sheets.

He loves his wife, he loves his child, she thinks. He is happy. Happy. She mouths the word one, two times.

She takes the page, folds it into a small neat square, and burns it.