Gemotions

The elevator's confines felt like a pressure cooker to Emily. She chewed on her lip, her jaw clenched. The air conditioning was failing, and a sheen of perspiration coated her forehead. She fanned herself with a crumpled printout, her movements jerky and erratic.

She kept clearing her throat, the dry air scratching her throat raw. She hated this feeling of vulnerability, this complete lack of control. Her coworker, John, was whistling a jaunty tune, a fact that only intensified her agitation.

She wanted to snap at him, to tell him to shut up, but she couldn't. She was afraid to show weakness. She glared at the control panel, willing the doors to open. Each creak, each groan of the machine felt like a personal insult.

The sweat began to drip down her temples, blurring her vision. She felt a wave of nausea, and her stomach clenched. She focused on the cold, sterile surface of the elevator wall, trying to ground herself.