Gemotions

Clara returned home to the smell of garlic and something else… unfamiliar. Her husband, Mark, stood at the stove, his back to her, muttering. She leaned against the doorframe, observing him. He turned, a sheepish look plastered across his face. "Pardon my French," he said, before proceeding to flawlessly order the ingredients for dinner from a pre-made online grocery list, now printed in French. She gripped the doorframe tighter, her knuckles turning white. Her own French, which she considered quite good, had never been this eloquent.