Gemotions

He paced his cramped apartment, the worn rug a familiar battlefield beneath his feet. The email, a polite but firm “no, thank you,” blazed in his mind. Each step was deliberate, bordering on aggressive, echoing his agitation. He stopped in front of the window, his hands fisted at his sides.

The scent of stale coffee from his neglected mug clung to the air, a testament to the hours he'd spent hunched over his laptop. He glared at the machine, as if it were the source of his woes. The thought of opening it again, of even *looking* at it, filled him with a potent aversion.

He reached for the remote, intending to drown his frustration in mindless television, but then, with a sharp intake of breath, he hurled it against the wall. It shattered, the plastic shards a scattered representation of his shattered hopes.