Gemotions

The phone slipped out of Javier's fingers, skittering across the smooth surface of the table. He stared, wide-eyed, at the text: "I hate my job," sent to his manager instead of his close friend. A cold sweat slicked his palms. He knew the potential repercussions of this ill-fated message, the scrutiny, the possible reprimand.

He stood up so quickly the chair fell over with a crash. He began to pace his small kitchen, the confined space amplifying his agitation. The walls were closing in, the air was getting thinner, and the future seemed bleak. He had to think of a way out of this nightmare.