Gemotions

The coffee tasted like ash in his mouth. John pushed the mug away, the ceramic rim cold against his trembling fingers. He’d found out at the pub the night before; Mark, the intern, was already raking in more than he was, after all his time with the company.

He couldn’t focus. The quarterly report lay open on his desk, but the words blurred, the figures shifted. His mind raced, calculating, recalculating. He imagined his wife’s face, the disappointment that would settle upon it when he told her he couldn't get a raise, or that he might need to quit.

The chair squeaked as he stood up, pacing the small confines of his cubicle. He needed to get out, to walk, to clear his head, but his legs felt heavy, as if weighted down by invisible chains.