Gemotions

The fluorescent lights hummed a discordant tune above Amelia's head. Her breath hitched, a tiny, almost imperceptible gasp. Across from her, Mark, the office joker, bounced on the balls of his feet, whistling a jaunty tune. She wished he'd stop.

A bead of sweat trickled down her temple. The air felt thick, heavy, pressing in on her. She swallowed, trying to find purchase in the dryness that had seized her throat. The metallic tang of fear blossomed in her mouth.

"So," Mark began, his voice a little too loud, "This is a pickle, eh?" Amelia just nodded, unable to meet his gaze. The confined space, the lack of air, were making her stomach churn. She hated feeling this way.

She closed her eyes, trying to focus on something else, anything else, but the rhythmic whir of the stalled elevator and Mark's incessant chatter invaded her thoughts. Each tick of the invisible clock grated.