Gemotions

The cardboard box sat on the welcome mat, a taunt in the morning light. It wasn’t addressed to him, of course. “Brenda Miller” was scrawled across the top in clumsy marker. He kicked at the box, sending it skittering across the porch. *Brenda Miller.* That woman, still getting mail addressed to his address. He’d told the post office. He’d written "Not at this address" on every single piece of her junk mail he'd ever found.

He grabbed the box and ripped it open, a savage tear of cardboard. Inside, nestled in packing peanuts, was a ceramic cat, its face a bland, placid smile. He slammed the box shut, the cat’s painted smile now mocking him from inside. He felt a sudden, sharp pressure in his chest, a tightening he couldn't shake. The urge to smash it against the wall was overpowering.

He stomped back inside, slammed the door, and locked it with a resounding click. The cat would stay put. For now.