Gemotions

The constant tapping of Ms. Henderson’s pen against her desk was a high-pitched assault on his ears. He shifted in his seat, the plastic of the chair creaking in protest. He glanced at the clock. Still only 2:03 PM. He wanted to scream.

He’d put in the time. The overtime. The extra effort. He saw the way she looked at him, too. Did she *pity* him?

He pushed his chair back, the scrape of the legs making Ms. Henderson look up. He hated this office. He hated the forced cheerfulness, the posters of smiling kittens. He needed to be away from here. He stood abruptly and walked towards the coffee machine.