Gemotions

The cold metal of the elevator floor offered little comfort. I sat cross-legged, the polished leather of my work shoes pressing against the gritty surface. The dim light seemed to emphasize the dust motes dancing in the air, a silent ballet of indifference. I looked at the emergency phone, the numbers, the potential escape, and felt a profound lack of interest in trying them.

My coworker, David, was drumming his fingers on his briefcase, a staccato rhythm that grated on my nerves. "They'll get us out, right?" he asked, his voice strained. I merely nodded, not meeting his eye.

The irony of it all. Another project deadline, another missed family dinner. Trapped. Waiting. It was just another Tuesday, I thought. I looked down at my hands, the fingers that would be typing emails soon, the hands that couldn't change a thing.