Gemotions

Liam glared at the door, willing the mail carrier to return. He’d spent the last thirty minutes hunched over the kitchen counter, meticulously assembling a gourmet sandwich. The ingredients, all meticulously chosen, were already starting to wilt. This was the final piece of the puzzle: a package of imported Italian olive oil that should have arrived an hour ago. Except, of course, the package on the stoop, addressed to “Ms. Dubois,” was a complete and utter nuisance. He wanted that olive oil, now. He imagined the smooth, fruity taste, the way it would elevate his creation, and his stomach rumbled in protest. He went back to the door. Still nothing.