Gemotions

Sarah slammed the door, the flimsy particleboard vibrating under the force. Another one. The box was bulky, addressed to "Mr. Bartholomew Finch." Finch, a name that conjured images of tweed and pipe smoke. She imagined him probably retired, and she, stuck dealing with his mail.

She kicked the box, sending it skidding across the living room floor. A headache was starting to throb behind her eyes. She’d been up since five, chasing deadlines, and the last thing she needed was someone else’s unwanted junk. She felt the sudden urge to just put it in the hallway and let the next person sort it.

"Just… great," she whispered to herself.