Gemotions

He’d insisted on a handshake. James folded his arms across his chest. He wasn’t going to give that overgrown oaf the satisfaction. "So," Mark began, his voice surprisingly gentle, "tell me what brings you in today."

James stared at the framed diplomas on the wall. They were practically radiating smugness. "I'm just here because my wife *made* me come." He said it with a distinct edge in his tone.

He crossed his legs, a gesture of defiance. He’d be damned if he’d let Mark Peterson – the kid who'd once glued his hands to his desk – psychoanalyze him. He wouldn't cooperate. Not even a little bit. He would be difficult, just to be difficult.