The truck had pumped the concrete over the hard core and departed, leaving George to push the setting mass up to the edging and rake it level.
He hummed a lament as he worked. Push, push, drag, tamper, smooth; repeat with variation.
Another twenty-four hours and he’d be able to park his car on the new driveway.
He stepped back to admire his work.
Jane’s head poked out from the front door. ‘Looks good. Shep, no!’
The dog bolted along the length of the concrete, barking wildly.
‘Bloody dog,’ George muttered, extending the rake, quickly re-finding his rhythm and tune.
A drabble is a story of exactly 100 words.
1 comment:
Trust a dog for that, Rob! I like this one - thanks.
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