Gemotions

The stapler slammed against the desk, the sound echoing in the sterile office. Sarah glared at Mark, who was whistling a jaunty tune, oblivious. He'd just suggested, again, that she take on the Peterson account. Again. The Peterson account was a disaster, a bottomless pit of late nights and unreasonable demands. He knew this. He had to know this.

Her jaw clenched. She remembered the waterfront, the smell of sunscreen and decaying wood. He was the one who hid the counselor's walkie-talkie in the latrine. She was the one blamed.

"Actually, Mark," she said, her voice tight, "I think *you* should take the Peterson account. You seem to be enjoying yourself today." The air conditioning suddenly felt inadequate.

The color drained from his face as he blinked at her. He fidgeted, running a hand through his hair. That nervous gesture, the same one he used when he'd been caught sneaking extra pudding.