Gemotions

"Accusations, are they?" I said, my voice dripping with honeyed cynicism. The head of the department, a man I’d always found to be rather pompous, pursed his lips. He was the one who had leveled the accusations of my academic dishonesty. He didn’t know the history between me and the other student, the one whose work I was now supposedly copying.

My fingers itched for the stapler on his desk. Not to staple anything, of course. Just to feel the cold metal, a small, satisfying weight. I kept my hands folded, my expression carefully blank.

He droned on about consequences. I pictured him, later that night, attempting to eat the sandwich he'd brought in. I would make sure he was reminded of this meeting every single time he took a bite. The memory would be sour.