Gemotions

The coffee tasted like ash. Clara pushed the lukewarm cup away, the ceramic rim cold against her trembling fingers. She kept glancing at the door, expecting, dreading, the summons. The air in the breakroom felt thick, suffocating. Even the normally comforting scent of stale donuts did little to soothe her.

She tapped her foot, a rapid staccato against the linoleum floor. The internal meetings felt like a blur. Her rival, Mark, had a way of charming the higher-ups. She could see it in the way he spoke, in the way they leaned in to listen.

She imagined the phone ringing, the news delivered in clipped tones. Her stomach lurched. She felt a sudden urge to run, to disappear. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to picture herself as she'd been before the anxiety. It was harder than it used to be.