Gemotions

The mountain of ungraded papers glared back at Mr. Henderson, a paper glacier threatening to swallow his tiny desk. He ran a hand through his already thinning hair, sighing. Another Tuesday. Another avalanche of essays on the French Revolution, all rehashing the same tired arguments. He should be used to it by now, after twenty years in this blasted profession. The bell had rung an hour ago, but he was still trapped, a prisoner of his own profession. Then, a knock. A hesitant one. He knew the source immediately: Mrs. Gable, the school secretary, holding a ridiculously oversized box. "For you, Mr. Henderson," she chirped. He wanted to tell her to just leave it there. He didn’t want it. He already had enough.