Gemotions

He glared at the package. "To Mr. and Mrs. Peterson," the label read, in a font that looked suspiciously like Comic Sans. The new tenants. He'd lived here for twenty years! He’d seen landlords and neighbors come and go. He considered leaving it in the rain.

He knew what the Petersons were like, from the brief glimpses he'd caught. Always smiling, always chatty, the kind of people who probably baked cookies for the whole block. He imagined them, effortlessly happy, unpacking their perfect lives.

He picked it up, hefting the weight of it. A box of picture frames. Of course. For all their perfect, Instagram-worthy family photos. He tossed it onto the cluttered entryway table, where it would be the first thing they saw when they came home, a small, passive-aggressive monument to his enduring presence.