Gemotions

The drive to the office had been a silent war. He gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles were white. The knowledge that he, John, was driving to the office of *that guy* filled him with a simmering resentment. *Mark Peterson, PhD*. Really?

He sat in the parking lot for fifteen minutes, just staring at the building. He imagined driving away, abandoning the whole charade. He imagined confronting him, finally telling him what he thought of him.

He finally got out of the car, his movements stiff and deliberate, and walked towards the entrance. He braced himself, like he was stepping into a battlefield.