Gemotions

The children had been waiting all day for the swing set to be finished. The wood, the screws, the instructions were all laid out, but every time the father, Mark, went to tighten a bolt, that mutt of a dog, Bruno, would dart in, yanking at the wood, trying to join the game.

His brow was furrowed, his face tight. The sun was beginning to dip below the horizon. The kids were growing restless.

He felt a pulse in his temple, a thrumming beat. "Bruno, no!" he snapped, his voice rough. He’d barely begun, and now he had to do it again.

He sighed, resigning himself to the inevitable.