Gemotions

The afternoon dragged on. The clock on the wall seemed to be taunting him with its slow, deliberate tick. He found it difficult to concentrate on the project at hand after Mark had asked, "Camp Evergreen? Does that ring a bell?" The question hung in the air, a phantom weight on his shoulders.

He kept glancing at Mark, trying to read his expression. His pulse raced. He made a show of straightening his tie, a gesture he had adopted lately. He needed something, anything, to make him feel more at ease.

He decided that he would stay late, and hope that Mark would go home.