Gemotions

The clatter of the assembly line was a constant assault on Clara’s senses. She stared at the conveyor belt, a river of identical, mass-produced widgets. The rhythmic thud of the machinery, the repetitive motion of the workers, sent a wave of nausea washing over her.

She was to be the "quality control supervisor." She stared at the widgets, at the hands that touched them. She imagined the sweat, the grime, the indifferent touch. She had been a bookkeeper. Her hands were used to handling crisp, clean paper.

She picked up a widget, the cold plastic feeling alien against her palm. She held it at arm's length, examining it with a critical eye. She felt a growing revulsion. She set it back down, with deliberate care, as if it was contaminated. The whole situation felt fundamentally wrong.