The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the lawn as Mr. Henderson, a man whose smile always seemed a little too wide, ambled over. He held a clipboard, its edges softened by use. A bead of sweat traced a path down her temple. She hadn't expected him. Or rather, she hadn't anticipated the way his presence now made her skin prickle.
"Afternoon, Mrs. Gable. Lovely day, isn't it?" His voice was a low hum, a honeyed tone that sent a shiver through her. She ran a hand through her hair, unconsciously smoothing the strands at the back of her neck.
"Yes, it is," she managed, her voice a little breathless. The air suddenly felt thick, heavy with unspoken things. She found herself staring at the way the light caught the fine hairs on his forearms. A strange heat bloomed in her chest.
"Just wanted to chat about that old oak, right on the property line," he continued, gesturing with the clipboard. The movement emphasized the curve of his bicep. She swallowed hard, suddenly intensely aware of the rise and fall of her own breasts.
"What about it?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper. The idea of the oak being gone, its solidity and rootedness, felt like a personal loss. She shifted her weight, the fabric of her shorts suddenly tight.