Gemotions

Sweat beaded on Elias’s forehead as he stared at the rejection letter. He crumpled it, then smoothed it out, then crumpled it again. He could practically feel the gears grinding in his own invention, the prototype in the garage, a device to harvest atmospheric water. He’d poured everything into it, late nights, countless failures, ramen for weeks. Now this. Someone else, a Mr. Sterling, already had a patent for something remarkably similar. He slammed his fist on the table, the tremor running up his arm.

He paced his tiny apartment, each circuitous route a manifestation of his internal turmoil. He kicked at a stray shoelace, muttering under his breath about bureaucratic red tape and the injustice of it all. He grabbed his keys, then tossed them back on the table. He picked them up again. He needed to get out, to *do* something.

He pulled on his jacket, the metallic tang of desperation filling his nostrils. The garage, he decided, was the only place he wanted to be. He needed to see it, to tinker with it, to *fix* it, somehow. The air in his lungs felt too thick.