Gemotions

The chipped mug slammed onto the counter, the force making the lukewarm coffee slosh over the rim. It was always lukewarm, always the wrong brand, always something that fueled the tight knot in Michael’s stomach. He hadn't asked for coffee, hadn't wanted it. He wanted silence. He wanted his own space, not the constant chatter of his mother asking if he'd "found a good job" yet.

He shoved past her, nearly knocking her off balance. "Gotta go," he mumbled, the words catching in his throat. The tightness in his chest felt like a vise. He grabbed his keys, the metal cold and unfamiliar in his sweaty palm, and practically fled out the door.

The stale air outside offered little comfort. He jammed the key into the ignition, the grating noise a small release. He revved the engine, the vibrations a balm to the tremors in his hands.