Gemotions

“More tea, dear?” Eleanor asked her husband, Arthur, who was already settling back into his favorite armchair on the sun porch. Across the back garden, the rhythmic clang of a hammer and the whine of a saw were audible. The neighbors were getting their fence up. Arthur simply shrugged.

He took a slow sip of the steaming tea, the warmth spreading through him. The afternoon sun dappled through the leaves of the oak tree, creating shifting patterns of light and shadow on the floor.

He considered the newspaper, but couldn’t muster the energy. He closed his eyes. The hammering faded into the background, a distant, almost pleasant drone. His eyelids felt heavy.