Gemotions

The clock on the microwave seemed to mock him, ticking with deliberate slowness. Mark chewed at the inside of his cheek, a familiar habit when things didn’t go his way. He needed that package. It contained a vital component for his model airplane, a project he'd been pouring weeks into. It was addressed to "Sarah Miller," the previous resident, a woman he'd never met. The package was taunting him. He paced the living room, his steps short and agitated. He’d already tried contacting the post office twice, each call ending with a frustrating runaround. He checked the time again. Still not a minute closer to his package.