The Editor's Ex

Because you’re gone, I take a book to bed: The Flame of Passion. Scabbard at his thigh, Lord Henry gets the girl. You’d only buy top Booklist picks. “The romance genre’s dead,” you’d say when promises of I-thee-wed lured me to bargain bins. I learned to lie about my day, hoard Harlequins on the sly while you were off at work, your office spread with red-inked proofs. But now it makes me yawn to read beyond the lovers’ wedding night. I close The Flame, not even halfway through. His sword grows dull while she goes on and on about how lovers must stay true. I’d write another ending, if I could, for you.