Gemotions

The package, plump and brown, was propped against his front door, a monument to his frustration. He snatched it up, the paper crinkling audibly in his grasp. The old tenant, that leech, continued to haunt his life, even in the form of unwanted deliveries. He scowled at the label: "Mrs. Evelyn Carter." The name itself seemed to grate on his nerves.

He brought it inside, and tossed it onto the kitchen counter with a loud thud. He needed a drink, a stiff one. He poured himself a generous measure of whiskey, then another, the amber liquid burning a path down his throat. He paced his apartment, the package a persistent distraction.

Suddenly, he grabbed a kitchen knife and sliced the package open, the blade severing the tape with a swift, decisive motion. He pulled the contents out with a snarl; a set of floral-patterned placemats. He flung them into the trash with a frustrated growl.