Gemotions

The invitation crackled in Michael's hand. He carefully set it down on the worn wooden table, the surface of which was speckled with coffee rings. He found himself avoiding his own reflection in the window, even though the glass was smudged with fingerprints. His fingers trembled as he poured himself a shot of whiskey, his usual evening ritual taking on a different character. He didn't want the drink, but the action was automatic, comforting.

He stared at the flickering television screen, the images flitting past, meaningless noise. He couldn't focus. He felt a pressure in his chest, a subtle tightness that constricted his breathing. He picked at a loose thread on the sleeve of his sweater. It seemed to have grown longer, stretching and thinning as he twisted it.

He thought of the people he’d have to see, the conversations he’d have to endure. He felt a creeping dread. He felt compelled to stand. He needed air. He opened the front door, the night air swirling around him.