Gemotions

He’d always hated Tuesdays. Now, with the news of the sale, the dislike metastasized into something deeper, heavier. He ran a hand through his already dishevelled hair, the strands catching on his calloused fingers. The knot in his shoulders tightened with each passing second.

The water in his coffee cup seemed to ripple in slow motion, mirroring the molasses-slow pace of his thoughts. He avoided eye contact, even with his reflection in the darkened screen of his monitor. The future, previously a vast expanse of possibilities, was now a tight, claustrophobic box.

“Well,” he said, the word a clipped exhale as he pushed himself away from his desk. "Let's see who's selling off what now."