Gemotions

The fluorescent lights of the breakroom buzzed, mirroring the agitation clawing at Michael's insides. He slammed his chipped coffee mug onto the counter, splashing lukewarm liquid across the Formica. The memo. The damned memo. "Strategic realignment," the corporate drivel had called it, but everyone knew what it really meant. Sold. Sold off to some vultures who would gut the company and toss aside loyal employees like so much garbage.

He imagined the smug faces of the executives, celebrating over champagne while he, Michael, who'd poured his life into this place, faced an uncertain future. His jaw clenched, a muscle jumping beneath his cheek. The coffee's metallic tang did nothing to soothe the bitterness rising in his throat. He wished he could just walk out, kick over the potted plant by reception, and watch the whole damn place burn.