Mrs. March

by Virginia Feito

Mrs. March’s pulse quickened with the telltale excitement and wariness that always manifested right before she interacted with others.

She always assumed he must despise her

Mrs March lacks confidence. Her intrusive thoughts are self-deprecating. She assumes the worst about everyone; escalating even the smallest reaction.

Mrs. March retired to the bedroom, to the freshly turned sheets and her white flannel nightgown and the hardcover copy of Rebecca on the nightstand.

She had always been jealous of George’s intimate relationship with books: how he touched them, scribbled on them, bent and folded them, their pages impossibly ruffled.