Gemotions

Rain hammered against the window, blurring the streetlights into hazy halos. Sarah, home again after a disastrous attempt at living independently, stood in the kitchen, a mug warming her hands. Her mother, bustling around making dinner, wore a floral apron that somehow seemed both ridiculous and comforting. The scent of garlic and onions, her favorite, filled the small space. Sarah found herself lingering a little too long, watching the way her mother’s hands moved, the slight curve of her back as she stirred the pot. Her own breathing deepened. A prickle of heat traced its way up her neck.

“Want to help set the table, sweetie?” her mother asked, not looking up.

“Sure,” Sarah croaked, her voice sounding unfamiliar. She focused on the silverware, avoiding eye contact, the metal cool against her skin. The thought of her mother's hands on the silverware, and then her own hands, sent a strange current through her.