Gemotions

"Another one, eh?" Michael asked, a slight rasp in his voice. He sat on the porch, nursing a lukewarm cup of coffee. The neighborhood was quiet, the air thick with the promise of an approaching storm. He found himself staring off into the distance, lost in thought.

A blur of golden fur streaked across his vision. Michael knew the dog's pattern of escape by heart. It was Buster, naturally.

He followed the dog as it scampered across the grass. He opened the gate, watched Buster go. He closed the gate. Back on the porch, the coffee tasted bland, and the silence pressed upon him.