Gemotions

Thomas paced his tiny apartment. The print edition of the journal lay open on his coffee table, the offending page facing upwards. His article, his *life’s work*, now bore the name "Brenda Miller." A wave of nausea rolled over him. He felt faint. He stumbled to the small kitchen, grabbing a glass of water, his hand shaking so violently he sloshed it over the counter.

He recalled the email exchange with his editor, a terse, dismissive reply to his query about publication dates. He should have pressed harder. He should have been more assertive. Regret, thick and bitter, filled his mouth. He felt a profound sense of helplessness.

He muttered to himself, "How could this happen? How?" His voice cracked. He felt the sting of tears behind his eyes. He sat down hard in the worn armchair. He felt a chill, despite the summer heat.