Gemotions

The professor’s voice, usually a comforting baritone, now grated on his nerves. “We’ll need to make alternative arrangements,” he was saying, his tone carefully neutral. He found his gaze drifting to the window, the autumn colours a mocking parade of beauty. He felt a tremor run through him, a feeling that something was about to give. The words, the gentle tones, grated on him. He abruptly stood, shoving his chair back with a violent screech. “Alternative arrangements?” he echoed, his voice sharp and brittle. “What about my arrangements?” He stalked out of the lecture hall, leaving the professor staring.