Gemotions

He stared at the offending box, the package that wasn’t his. It was a beautiful, crisp morning, the kind that made you want to be outside. Instead, he was stuck inside, trapped by the bureaucracy of wrong addresses. The package, addressed to "Ms. Rodriguez," held a crucial piece of furniture he needed. It wasn't his. He needed to get the item inside, and he needed it now. He rubbed his hands together, the skin dry and itchy. He'd been waiting for an hour. Every passing car sounded like the delivery truck. He took a deep, frustrated breath.