Gemotions

The silence in the waiting room was almost unbearable. Michael sat upright, his back stiff, his hands clasped tightly in his lap. He could hear the muffled voices of other colleagues, all seemingly calm and composed. He was not.

He felt the need to get up and pace, to move, to do anything other than sit still. But he forced himself to remain, a statue of controlled anticipation. He looked at the glossy magazines on the table, but he couldn't bring himself to pick one up. His thoughts swirled.

Each tick of the clock was a hammer blow against his composure. Then the door opened, and his name was called.