Gemotions

Rain lashed against the windows, mirroring the tempest brewing inside Mark. He'd found the manuscript tucked beneath a stack of unpaid bills – *his* name on the cover, a ridiculous, romance novel-esque title, and the blurb… it was all about him. The audacity! He kept checking his watch, the second hand seeming to mock his every thought. He slammed a fist against the cold countertop in the kitchen.

He paced the length of the living room, a restless lion in a cage, his steps measured and then, in the next second, too quick. His wife, Emily, was probably at her pottery class. That bought him some time, even if it wasn't enough. He wanted to read, to devour the words and understand. He wanted the truth, and he wanted it now.

He grabbed a bottle of scotch and poured a generous amount into a tumbler. The first sip burned a satisfying path down his throat. He glanced at the bedroom door and the telltale glint of paper that hid the manuscript. He took another gulp, his fingers twitching.