Gemotions

A bead of sweat trickled down Marcus’s temple as he read. His grandfather's handwriting, usually so neat, was shaky and hurried on the draft. It was dated 1982. The subject: a resignation from the very company Marcus now ran. He’d found it tucked away in a dusty antique desk, while sifting through old things after his grandmother's passing.

He glanced at the letter again. The words were a cry of frustration, a plea for creative freedom buried within the starchy prose of corporate jargon. Marcus knew that feeling – the itch to break free, the desire to rip up the rule book and start again. He felt a strange flutter in his stomach.

He leaned back, the letter falling from his fingers. The office felt suffocating, the air stale. He grabbed his keys. He needed to get out, to *move*. He walked out to his car, and for the first time in a while, considered driving somewhere beyond the city limits.