My black dog flumped onto my feet while I watched television, formed to the curvature of the couch, and in his mouth was the tattered remnants of my red balloon.
All afternoon I had watched him skulking around the back door, but he nuzzled his way in, eyeing off the red balloon that floated on the draughts through the cracks in the windows.
With a quick snap he had taken the balloon in his mouth and popped it.
He looked triumphant with his saggy jowls; that I was defeated and would not move from where I had taken up position.
The afternoon shadows crept like soul’s darkness across the floor, a marshy quicksand that sucks you down below into its depths.
However, my black dog tends to forget that I have a pocketful of red balloons.