Gemotions

The smell of burnt toast filled the kitchen, a pungent reminder of his inattention. He hadn't been paying attention. He slammed the toaster down and opened the window. He should have been watching the toast. He should have been watching the dog.

He walked outside and sighed. Buster was happily sniffing at the bird feeder, seemingly oblivious to the chaos he’d wreaked. The swing set was tipped over, the meticulously arranged rose bushes trampled. His wife's face, etched with a quiet disappointment, flashed in his mind.

He picked up a fallen rose, its petals bruised. He knew he had to say something, but the words caught in his throat. He had allowed this to go on for far too long. He should have just fixed it.