Gemotions

The chipped mug warmed Amelia's hands, but the lukewarm coffee did little to chase the chill that had settled in her bones. She watched, again, as Buster, the golden retriever from next door, trotted across her meticulously manicured lawn, a fluffy orange comet disrupting her morning. The gate, of course, was unlatched. Again. She sighed, the sound barely audible above the hum of the refrigerator. Why did this always happen on the days she planned to work on her novel? Each interruption, each trek to return the dog, chipped away at her resolve. She felt a kind of weighty pressure in her chest, a feeling like she was underwater, unable to rise.