Gemotions

The rustle of leaves against the fence was the only sound for hours. Sarah watched it, from the kitchen window, as she stirred the soup. It was the same soup she’d made every Tuesday for the last three months. The steam fogged the glass.

Suddenly, a flash of brown. Buster. Again. That scamp. He'd squeezed under the fence and was now sniffing at her prize-winning rose bushes.

"Blast," she muttered, grabbing her gardening gloves. She'd been looking forward to a quiet afternoon of weeding. Now, this. She sighed, a small, weary sound.

The dog looked up, tail wagging, as if this was all a grand game. She found herself smiling, the corners of her mouth twitching. "Alright, you rascal," she murmured, and opened the gate.