Not...

"Not." That is what I am telling myself with finality about once an hour right now.

I am not opening any letter. And I am not anxious to read the contents. And I do not care. At all. Not even the teeniest little bit. Well, a little.

Certainly, enough to open the damn drawer, and shove the photoalbum to one side. Lucky that I did so, because the bulky thing knocked a pile of glossy pamphlets spilling onto the carpet, and that did it. I bent hurriedly to grab them back up, and realized...Unless I did something dramatic, I was really going to read this letter. I was going to start it over. I really am a fool.

Something dramatic. Pity I don't have a roaring fireplace, or I could pull open the brass door with a cloth, blow on the coals, and then, with the heat burning my cheaks, I could throw the letter from my fingers with a cry, and watch it crackle and burn, its corners shivering and shrinking into black dust.

On the other hand, I don't have a fire. And, that sort of thing is the action of damsel in distress destroying a letter from a dashing lover. Neither of which am I. I am NOT a damsel in distress. And I am NOT destroying a letter from a dashing lover.

Actually, I may not be destroying the letter after all. Ooooh. I can't decide!!!