Gemotions

The card was a smear of floral vomit on the pristine white of her mailbox. Eleanor snatched it with a practiced, irritable flick of her wrist, nearly ripping the cheap paper in two. *Another one.* Like a festering weed, these things always sprouted up, uninvited, unwelcome. Her lips curled as she examined the generic, pastel design: a cluster of balloons, sickeningly cheerful.

“Honestly,” she muttered, her voice tight, “who even bothers anymore?”

She could feel the familiar prickle of annoyance crawling up her spine. The unsigned card, of course. Always unsigned. The anonymity was almost worse than the gesture itself. It was the coward's way of… of what? Wishing her well? Condescending? She crumpled the card, aiming for the overflowing trash can and missing by a good three feet.