Gemotions

"Damn," Martha muttered, kicking a stray pebble across the cracked pavement outside her small bakery. Her automatic bread slicer, a feat of engineering she’d poured her soul into, was virtually identical to one she'd just seen listed. It was a disheartening discovery. This week’s bread had just come out of the oven. The smell of fresh rye wafted from the open door and it was, as always, perfect. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, then slowly re-opened them. The sun beat down on the street. The other stores were bustling. Martha turned and went back inside, to her work.