Gemotions

The elevator ascended slowly, each floor a torment. Michael stared at the numbers ticking upwards, his face a mask of careful neutrality. His shoulders were slumped, his tie loosened, a rare concession to his mounting unease. The casual dismissal of his concerns, the placid tone of his supervisor's voice, played again and again inside his head.

He didn't bother to reply to the casual "How are you?" from the woman who stepped in on floor 7.

He wanted to scream. He wanted to break something. The unfairness of it all lodged in his throat, a bitter, inedible lump. He'd poured his heart and soul into this company for a decade. He'd watched the young ones come and go, taking all the shortcuts. He felt the cold elevator pressing him.

He got out on his floor, went to his desk and slammed his head on the desk.