Gemotions

He drummed his fingers on the conference table, the sound echoing in the otherwise silent room. Every tick of the clock on the wall felt like a personal insult. Mark had practically lived in this office for the last few weeks, pouring over reports, staying late.

He kept replaying his interview in his head, dissecting every word he'd uttered. Had he been too eager? Too reserved? He ran a hand through his hair, the gesture more a sign of restlessness than grooming.

"Anything?" he asked the receptionist, his voice tight. She shook her head. He let out a sigh, the sound heavy with unspoken tension. He felt a need to do something, anything, besides sit and wait.