Gemotions

The cardboard box sat on the welcome mat, a taunt in the morning light. "Brenda Miller," the label declared, in a neat, cheerful script. *Brenda Miller*. As if. She kicked the package, just hard enough to nudge it, then slammed the door. Inside, she imagined, were Brenda's yoga pants and organic tea. The perfect life she, apparently, was incapable of achieving.

She made coffee, bitter and black, and watched the rain streak down the window. The box, still on the mat, seemed to mock her with its silence. Every time the wind rattled the flimsy cardboard, she felt a fresh jab of something she couldn’t quite name.

Finally, she pulled on a coat, stomped outside, and dragged the package inside. She ripped it open, tearing the tape with unnecessary force. A hand-written card, decorated with a drawing of a smiling sun, fell out. She crumpled it in her fist, then tossed it in the trash. The contents, a cheap aromatherapy diffuser and lavender oil, felt like another insult.