Gemotions

He nearly tripped over the package as he left for work. The damn thing was huge, addressed to “Ms. Eleanor Abernathy, Apt. 3B”. He’d never even met an Eleanor Abernathy. The previous tenant, a woman who’d left behind a collection of dead plants and a faint odor of stale perfume. He nudged it with his foot, the cardboard yielding slightly.

As he walked down the street, he imagined the contents: probably some overpriced cat food or a self-help book about finding inner peace. He chuckled grimly. Inner peace. He’d be lucky to find a parking space.

He'd leave it on the front steps, where the rain could get to it. Maybe the elements would provide the catharsis he so desperately craved. It would save him the inconvenience of dealing with it.