Gemotions

The clinking of the dog tags was the harbinger of panic. From her kitchen window, she saw Buster, tail wagging, sniffing around her flowerbeds. She hated this part of the day.

Her hands started to shake. The familiar tightness in her chest constricted her breathing. He'd been getting bolder lately, coming closer and closer to the house.

She retreated, backing away from the window until she could no longer see the dog. She thought about closing the blinds, but decided against it; She didn't want him to think she was home.

She made herself a cup of tea, the clinking of the spoon against the ceramic a counterpoint to the racing of her thoughts.