Hamilton Trash 2: The Sequel

Best of Wives and Best of Women

He walked out of the bedroom as quietly as he could when a subtle and gentle voice came from behind him saying, "Alexander, come back to sleep."
While pretending to arrange his books - pretending to simulate a private meeting - he started, "I have an early meeting out of town," avoiding eye contact. His voice was hollow. Make-believed.
Eliza looked out the window. The sky was a dull gray; not yet five o'clock in the morning. He wouldn't leave this early without telling her, yet, somehow, he did.
She spoke, "Alexander, dawn hasn't even risen yet..." her voice soft, defenseless.
"-I know," he replied, a little too soon. He knew what was to be coming, and wouldn't - couldn't - bear to tell it to her face.
He walked towards his work desk, and sat down. There was a dim light near the desk, a candle that Eliza lit. He watched the flame slowly burn the wax, and felt for a moment as if he were the wax. Wax, being burned to pieces until there was nothing left except for the dying embers of a jealous, political flame.
He resumed, quill in hand, "I just need to write something down," frantically writing whatever he could before that flame would strike.
Seven. Eight. Nine words.
Ten.
Eliza watched over his shoulder, not curious, but concerned for her husband. "Why must you write like your running out of time?" She asked in a whisper. This was the first time she asked this, but not the first time she thought.
His "shhh" interrupted her words, as he concentrated on his writing, like he did every other day. There was a brief silence, until Elizabeth spoke once again, pleading, "Come back to bed, Alexander. That's all I ask."
He sat up abruptly and started towards the door. "I'll be back soon."
Eliza's voice persuaded, "Come back to sleep..."
He replied again, too soon, "This meeting is at dawn." The words slipped from his mouth, of an implied abruptness stating that the conversation was over.
Another brief silence sleepily fell upon the household.
Surrendering, Eliza turned to the bedroom, "Well, I'm going back to bed," those five words being the last assuring words he would hear from his wife.
"Adieu, Best of Wives and Best of Women," she received as a letter, the letter that he wrote that night.
"Adieu, Best of Wives and Best of Women, he had written, for he knew it was true.

As he wrote the last period of the letter he could already feel the pain, the grief he would be in just as wax of a candle would chip away from being burned upon by an envious flame~