Gemotions

"Are you serious?" Mark sputtered, staring at the pay stub. He'd been subtly angling for a raise for months. And little Timmy, the intern who spilled coffee on the CEO's desk last week, was pulling in more than he was?

He leaned back in his chair, the wheels squeaking in protest. His palms felt clammy. His carefully cultivated composure, the one he wore like a well-tailored suit, seemed to unravel at the seams.

Mark drummed his fingers on his desk, the tapping an erratic staccato. He thought of all the late nights, the weekends spent crunching numbers. Timmy, meanwhile, seemed to spend most of his time chatting with the receptionist and trying to make TikToks during lunch breaks.

He imagined himself standing in front of the window and shouting at the top of his lungs. He didn't do it.