Gemotions

The elevator was a prison, the air a noxious brew of stale coffee breath and synthetic cologne. He stared at the floor indicator, his jaw clenched, each passing second amplified by the oppressive silence punctuated by Barry's forced attempts at conversation.

His skin crawled. He imagined the grime accumulating on the walls, the dust motes dancing in the weak light. He closed his eyes, focusing on his breathing, trying to filter out the offensive aroma and the unwanted chatter.

He pictured a clean, sterile room, a place free from the lingering smell of Barry's lunch and the weight of their forced proximity. He longed for the escape.