Gemotions

He found the magazine on the newsstand, glossy and gleaming. His name wasn't on the cover. *Hers* was. A vein throbbed in Michael's forehead. He wanted to rip the magazine to shreds, scatter the pages across the sidewalk like confetti. He shoved his hands in his pockets, the rough denim a poor substitute for a comforting grip.

He’d known, of course. The editor, that weasel, had implied the switch would be "mutually beneficial." What a joke. Mutual benefit, indeed. Michael’s stomach churned with a familiar, acidic bitterness.

He stared at the woman's name, bold and confident, printed in elegant script. He imagined her, preening, accepting congratulations, basked in the reflected glory of *his* work. He turned and walked away, his shoulders stiff, his pace deliberate, a simmering anger tightening his chest.