Gemotions

“Another day, another spreadsheet,” Marcus muttered, his voice flat. He drummed his fingers on the desk, the cheap laminate cold against his skin. The office, with its fluorescent lights and beige cubicles, felt like a cage. Outside, he saw Mr. Henderson, his neighbor, pull out of his driveway in a Rolls Royce. The glint of polished chrome was almost blinding.

Marcus knew Mr. Henderson. A quiet man, always polite, but undeniably... reserved. They’d shared a few brief conversations, mostly about the weather. Mr. Henderson had always been vague about his profession, saying only that he “dealt with investments.” Now, seeing the car, the expansive lawn, the sheer effortless ease with which Mr. Henderson lived, a sour taste filled Marcus's mouth.

He pushed back from his desk, the chair screeching on the linoleum. He needed air, needed a distraction from the dull ache in his bones. He walked out of the office and went to the vending machine, only to grab a bag of chips.