Gemotions

The cardboard box sat on the doorstep, addressed to "Mr. Alistair Finch." He wasn't Alistair Finch, obviously. He was Daniel, and he'd lived here for six months. He picked up the box, the weight of it surprisingly substantial. A tiny smile played on his lips as he lugged it inside, the afternoon sun warming his face. Maybe, just maybe, this Finch fellow had excellent taste. He imagined a vintage record player, a collection of first editions, something exciting. He felt a light skip in his chest, a flutter he hadn't experienced in weeks.

He carefully sliced open the tape, anticipation bubbling in his stomach. He peeked inside. It was a dog bed, a fluffy, orthopedic monstrosity. Deflation hit him, swift and hard, but then he chuckled, the sound a bit shaky. He’d get a dog one day.