Gemotions

The spreadsheet shimmered in Clara's vision. She blinked, once, twice, but the numbers remained stubbornly, outrageously, there. Young, fresh-out-of-college Mark, the one who still needed help printing, was making fifteen thousand dollars more than her. Her jaw felt locked. She felt a sudden, heavy pressure in her chest, as if a large rock had been placed there.

Clara had been at the company for eight years. She knew the filing system like the back of her hand, could predict the boss’s moods by the way he walked down the hall, and could navigate the labyrinthine coffee machine with her eyes closed. Now, the coffee machine seemed to mock her with its rhythmic gurgling. She gripped the edge of her desk, knuckles white, and stared at the screen, unable to look away.

“Clara? You okay?” Mark's voice, usually a cheerful buzz, now grated on her nerves. She managed a strangled nod, a movement that felt like pushing through thick mud.