Gemotions

Michael drummed his fingers on the worn tabletop, the rhythm a frantic counterpoint to the racing thoughts in his head. Sunlight streamed through the window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air, but he barely noticed. His stomach felt like a knotted rope.

He kept glancing at his phone, willing it to ring, to buzz, to deliver any kind of verdict. He hadn’t spoken to Sarah since the interview, a deliberate avoidance fueled by a potent cocktail of apprehension and rivalry.

"It's just a job," he muttered, the words sounding hollow even to his own ears. He got up and paced the small living room, his steps quick and uneven, like a trapped animal searching for an escape.