Gemotions

The steel doors slammed shut with a clang, and Anya felt a flicker of annoyance. Just another Tuesday. Then the lights flickered, plunged into darkness, and her coworker, David, yelped. She stifled a laugh. Three hours. Trapped. Anya, the office’s resident poet, grinned in the gloom.

David started babbling about the broken HVAC. Anya barely heard him. Ideas, bright and insistent, began to bubble in her mind. Her fingers itched for a pen, for paper. She patted her pockets. Nothing.

"You okay?" David's voice cut through the darkness.

"Just... thinking," she murmured, her voice hushed. The air was close, heavy with the scent of David's cologne. She ignored the way it usually annoyed her. Now, it was just... fuel. She imagined the scent as a color, a deep, rich indigo. She could write that. She wanted to *write* that.

She started reciting lines under her breath, a rhythm forming in the confined space. The metallic scent of the elevator, the claustrophobia – all of it, perfect material. She could use this.