Gemotions

The afternoon sun, usually a comforting presence, felt oppressive, heating the small apartment to a degree that made her skin prickle. She kept fiddling with the thermostat, unable to find a comfortable temperature. The notice, taped to her door, seemed to glare at her.

She had been avoiding answering the phone. Every ring was a fresh assault. The thought of speaking to the landlord, or anyone associated with the conversion, filled her with a sense of dread.

She lit a candle, the flickering flame offering a small, fleeting sense of control. She spent hours staring at it, the small, constant movement distracting her from the broader, unsettling movements occurring in her life.