Gemotions

“He’s just a dog, Martha,” the husband had said, a week ago. That word, “just”, infuriated him. Now, watching the dog prance across his perfectly manicured lawn, the sentiment was a burning ember in his chest.

The air felt thick, heavy with the scent of freshly cut grass now marred by muddy paw prints. He balled his fists, the tendons in his forearms bulging. This was a deliberate act, a flagrant disregard for his efforts.

He imagined the dog, sleek and black, locked in his garage. He imagined the owner, the little old lady, begging for mercy. The thought made him smile, a slow, predatory curving of his lips.