Gemotions

The afternoon was heavy, thick with the promise of more heat. It was the kind of heat that seemed to seep into your bones, making any movement a chore. Mr. Davis, a man who always seemed to be brimming with activity, was approaching my property line. He was holding a gardening magazine, and his posture was upright.

He began talking about the sycamore, its tendency to drop limbs. My head swam. The idea of standing in the sun, of discussing options, of any sort of *action* filled me with a weary dread.

I slumped further into the patio chair, the cushions providing little comfort. The sun felt like a weight, pressing down on me. I nodded slowly, a perfunctory gesture to show that I was listening, though my mind was elsewhere. The thought of the effort involved in dealing with the tree felt like an insurmountable obstacle.