Gemotions

He found himself pacing the narrow confines of his apartment, the worn carpet a familiar comfort beneath his feet. John kept glancing at the clock, the second hand seeming to tick with excruciating slowness. He reached for his phone, then quickly changed his mind.

His mouth tasted like sandpaper. He’d barely touched his breakfast, the toast sitting cold and forgotten on the counter. Thoughts of the meeting, the words he needed to say, the impression he needed to make, swirled in his mind like a relentless vortex.

He knew what he needed to do: remain calm, collected. He needed to be the picture of composure, the model of professionalism. But the pressure inside him built, a pressure that threatened to burst out in a flurry of nervous energy. He ran a hand through his hair, mussing it in the process.