Gemotions

Rain lashed against the windows, mimicking the agitated rhythm in Eleanor's chest. She dragged herself to the door, the cheap linoleum cold beneath her bare feet. The delivery driver, a young man with perpetually rosy cheeks, thrust a package at her. "For Mr. Henderson?" he asked, his voice bright, almost offensively so. Eleanor just grunted, accepting the box. "Wrong address," she mumbled, before slamming the door. Back inside, she tossed the package onto the already cluttered entryway table, the cardboard thud a small, unsatisfying act of rebellion.