Gemotions

The damn doorbell. Of course, it was the doorbell. It was always the doorbell when you were trying to savor the silence. He wrenched open the door, fully intending to give the delivery guy an earful about the inconsiderate timing.

A small package sat on the doorstep, addressed to “Ms. Eleanor Vance, Apt. 3B.” He wasn’t in 3B. He was in 4A. Eleanor Vance had moved out six months ago. He kicked the offending parcel with a satisfying thud.

He picked it up, scowling. Another one. These people were persistent. He slammed the door, muttering about bureaucratic incompetence. The package, now his problem, taunted him from the counter. He considered tossing it in the trash but knew he'd only regret it later.