Gemotions

He glared at the blinking cursor, the words on the screen mocking him. He’d been drafting a scathing email to his boss about the latest project failure. Then, somehow, his finger had nudged the wrong contact and sent the tirade to his grandmother, the woman who baked him cookies every Sunday. His throat tightened, a constriction like a steel band.

His hands shook as he quickly went to delete the message, but it was too late; the read receipt flickered. His stomach churned. He pictured her wrinkled face, the gentle smile that always disarmed him, now replaced with confusion and maybe even hurt. He was a monster. He squeezed his eyes shut and focused on breathing, counting to ten to quell the fury.

He wanted to smash the laptop, to erase the evidence of his outburst. He pushed himself away from the desk. Maybe a walk, some fresh air, might help.