Gemotions

He saw the box the moment he pulled into his driveway. “Michael Davidson” it read, in bold black marker. He parked his car with a jerk, the tires spitting gravel. *Michael Davidson.* He slammed the car door with enough force to make the windows rattle.

He trudged toward the house, his steps heavy. He felt a simmering resentment building within him. He was tired of these constant reminders of the previous owner.

He kicked the box; he wanted to destroy it. He resisted, taking a deep breath and forcing himself to open the package. Inside was a gardening book. He picked it up and ripped the cover off, letting the pieces of paper fall to the ground. Then, he tossed the ruined remains into the trash.