Gemotions

The flickering fluorescent lights above buzzed, mirroring the unrest inside Mark. He slammed his stapler down on his desk, the sound echoing in the otherwise quiet office. The air felt thick, heavy, like a suffocating blanket. He ran a hand through his already disheveled hair, the oily strands clinging to his scalp. He'd seen the whispers, the hushed phone calls, the sudden flurry of activity in the executive suites. Selling. The word burned in his mind, a constant, nagging ache.

His stomach clenched, a physical manifestation of the dread that had taken root. He swiveled in his chair, staring out the window at the distant cityscape. Each building a monument to potential joblessness, each car a potential ride to an uncertain future. He felt the familiar prickle of sweat forming on his brow, the prelude to a full-blown panic attack.

The thought of facing his wife, of explaining the vague possibility of upheaval, added another layer of pressure. He picked up the phone, intending to call her, then slammed it back down. The click resonated through him. He couldn’t. Not yet. Not until he had something concrete, something to brace himself with.