Gemotions

The fluorescent lights of the breakroom seemed to hum a mocking tune, a constant reminder of the cheap coffee that burned his tongue. He’d just overheard the hushed whispers by the water cooler: a buyer, a sale, the end of everything he knew. A flush crept up his neck, and he tugged at his collar, suddenly feeling the confines of his perfectly ironed shirt. His reflection in the microwave door showed a face he barely recognized, the cheerful veneer cracked. He found himself picking at the peeling paint on the windowsill, a nervous habit he hadn't indulged in years.