Cry a Little

She doesn’t know why she feels like crying when she comes home to an empty house. Her dog senses something pathetic as she opens the door, sets down her purse, forces her shoes off with tired feet. He comes to rest at her knees, licking her hands, shoving his nose into her thighs. She tells herself it’s a mood, the moody-weepys, that if she can just cry a little, just for a little while, then she’ll feel better, she can smile again, but she doesn’t want to do anything; only sit in the chair with the dog’s head beneath her hand, rocking back and forth.