Gemotions

The cardboard box sat by the front door, a beige rectangle addressed to "Mr. Alistair Finch." He knew no Alistair Finch. He nudged it with a foot as he went inside, the lock clicking shut behind him. The afternoon sun, a lukewarm disc, bled through the blinds. He considered the mail, a thin pile of bills and circulars, then the box again. It would probably just sit there for a week or so.

A week later, the box remained. He kicked it aside while taking out the trash. The plastic trash bag crinkled.

He finally carried the package to the recycling bin after the mail carrier gave him a dirty look for letting it sit on the porch. He ripped the top open, curious. Inside was a subscription to a magazine about rare bird calls. He tossed the magazine in with the box.