Gemotions

The heat was oppressive, and the air hung thick and heavy, like a woolen blanket. Every movement felt like an exertion. The last thing Harold wanted was company.

He was attempting to repair a leaky faucet, the incessant drip-drip-drip driving him mad. A shadow fell across the porch, and he nearly jumped out of his skin.

It was Mrs. Gable, radiating an artificial warmth that felt more like a physical assault. "Harold, dearie! That sycamore... it's casting a shadow on my roses."

He turned off the water, the silence momentarily blissful. He rubbed his forehead. She was going to be a pain.