Gemotions

He ran a hand through his hair, leaving it standing on end. The pawn shop felt even smaller than it had before, a claustrophobic box that held him captive. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, a maddening counterpoint to the quiet tension in the air. The owner, a man with a perpetually furrowed brow, was meticulously cleaning a chipped teacup.

“Sir,” he began, his voice strained, “Is it going to take much longer?”

The owner didn’t look up, his voice gravelly when he responded. “Takes as long as it takes, son. Got a lot on my plate.” The man's words hung in the air, heavy and unwelcome.