Gemotions

The email sat in Eleanor’s inbox, glowing with a malevolent light. She couldn’t bring herself to open it. The cursor blinked mockingly, a tiny white heartbeat against the dark screen. Her hands were clammy; she could feel the dampness beading on her palms. She ran a hand through her already messy hair, leaving it standing on end. The scent of burnt toast, a casualty of her distracted morning, hung in the air, but she couldn’t muster the energy to clear it. Her stomach felt like a lead weight.

The clock on her desk ticked with infuriating slowness. She imagined the editor, Mr. Blackwood, reading her manuscript, his expression a mask of polite indifference. The thought made her want to crawl under the covers and never resurface. What if it was awful? What if she’d wasted years?

She finally clicked on the email. The words swam before her eyes.