Gemotions

He glared at the unopened parcel on his kitchen table, the white paper gleaming under the harsh fluorescent light. Michael paced, his boots clicking a staccato beat against the linoleum. Why hadn't he just ripped it open? It was a biography, supposedly detailing his life. Someone, somewhere, had decided to write it without so much as a by-your-leave. He had been waiting an hour since it had been delivered, an hour that stretched out like an agonizing rubber band. He reached out, then retracted his hand. He was going to unravel it as soon as he could.