Gemotions

He paced the length of his apartment, the worn rug doing little to soften his footfalls. Each circuit was a tightly wound coil of nervous energy. The cheap clock on the wall seemed to taunt him with its slow, deliberate movements. He ran a hand through his already dishevelled hair, the strands catching between his fingers. He'd been looking forward to this for weeks, the anticipation a small sun against the encroaching darkness. A call came in, and he snatched the receiver, voice cracking as he answered. “What do you mean cancelled?” He choked out, the words catching in his throat.