Gemotions

The cardboard box sat on the welcome mat, stubbornly. It had been there for three days, since the damn thing had arrived, addressed to "Ms. Eleanor Vance." Eleanor Vance? Who the hell was that? He kicked the box, not hard enough to damage it, just enough to show his utter lack of interest. The sun was hot, beating down on the cheap wood of his porch. He should probably bring it inside, before the rain got to it. But he didn’t.

He slammed the door, the flimsy lock barely registering the force. Inside, the stale air of his apartment pressed in on him. He considered making coffee, but the thought of another day, another task, felt like a physical burden. It was always like this. He slumped into his worn armchair, the springs protesting, and stared at the flickering television.

Later, he found himself staring at the package again. He grabbed a rusty letter opener, and savagely attacked the tape, letting it rip and tear. Inside was a framed print of some generic landscape painting. He tossed it in the trash without a second glance.