Gemotions

"Another one," muttered David, a weary note creeping into his voice as he picked up the package. It was for "Mr. Arthur Bellweather," and this was the fourth delivery this month. He felt a familiar knot forming in his throat.

He trudged into the apartment, the weight of the box somehow mirroring the weight on his shoulders. The air inside felt stale, mirroring his mood. He dropped the package with a dull thud, the noise echoing in the quiet apartment.

He wandered into the kitchen, the fluorescent light casting a harsh glare. He opened the fridge and stared at its meager contents. A carton of milk, a wilting head of lettuce, and a half-eaten container of something he couldn't remember buying. He slammed the fridge door shut, the gesture a small explosion of pent-up feelings.