Gone

The air in the room was still, not a single speckle of dust moving, despite the powerful gale outside. A man was sitting at the table, looking out the window, his eyes unfocused; a blank sheet of ivory paper in front of him, a full ink bottle with a cap unscrewed sitting on the counter. A few drops of the ink were on the wooden table surface, pieces of crumpled paper strewn across the workplace. A silver pen with it's surface worn and scratched, rested in a man's hand.

The powerful wind outside was bending the trees and throwing dried leaves across an empty front yard. A few windows had a light coming out of them - someone arrived from work, back to their family, their greetings muffled by the thick walls.

A car door slamming somewhere, a sound of engine starting, a low rumble. Then it's silent again.

The man sighed deeply, dropped the pen on the table, and after sweeping some of the paper to the floor, rested his head on his arms.

A quiet dog whine, then a sound of paws on the hard floor, nails gently scratching the surface. The dog walked into a room and looked at the man slouched over at table. He wasn't moving, only his back rising and falling, shuddering ever so often.

The dog walked over to the chair and nudged his cold nose on the man's thigh. The man raised his head, face red, eyes glistening. He paused for a second, then stood up and walked into the kitchen and his pet followed.

The man refilled the bowl and put it down on the floor, then cleaned the water dish while the dog chowed down on his favourite slimy mashed mass of meat. He then left the kitchen and sat at the table, picked up the pen and looked out the window again, his gaze immediately losing focus.

Sound of paws on the floor again. The dog looked out of the kitchen, not understanding why a man wouldn't eat himself. They always ate together.

The pet walked around the house, sniffing at the familiar smells, while some unfamiliar smells lingered, like of those people coming over last day, smells of medicine, linen and rubber. There were a two of them, well built, a man and a woman. They were talking loudly and then they left in a hurry, carrying the lady with them.

He walked over to the dresser, sniffing at the single coat on a rack and few pairs shoes by the door. The lady never left without her shoes, but today they stood by the door, high-heeled, black, smelling of leather and some shoe polish.

When the lady is back they'll go on a walk, and he could play in the dried leaves, chasing them as they get picked up by the gusts of wind, looking back at the man and the woman, seeing them holding hands, smiling, talking softly of the things he couldn't understand.

But it mattered not. Soon the loud machine that carried the lady away would come back. She would climb the metal stairs, and the dog would run to meet her. She would put her coat on the hanger, right beside man's, and the dog would roll over on his back, and she would give him the best belly rubs.