Gemotions

The air was thick with the scent of burnt coffee and unspoken frustration. The meeting had been a disaster, the project was behind schedule, and he was being blamed. He could feel his pulse hammering against his temples. He needed to get out, he needed to think.

A package, addressed to "A. Finch," was on the counter. The ex-tenant. The thought of it was irritating. Another thing to deal with. He didn't have time for this.

He shoved it aside, but the small box seemed to loom in his peripheral vision, a persistent reminder of the mounting pressures of his life. He felt an urge to kick it. He did not.