Gemotions

The porch swing creaked rhythmically, a lullaby of rusted metal and frayed rope. Arthur blinked slowly, the sun a warm weight on his eyelids. Mrs. Gable's voice, scratchy as dry leaves, drifted over the fence. He groaned, the sound swallowed by the thick air. Another gardening project? He wished she'd just leave him in peace.

He managed a grunt of acknowledgment, hoisting himself up with an effort. The world swam slightly, the vibrant green of his lawn blurring at the edges.

"Arthur, dear, would you mind?" Mrs. Gable's face, etched with worry lines, appeared over the fence. "About the oak?"

He rubbed his eyes with a heavy hand. Oak? What about it? "What about it, Mrs. Gable?" he mumbled, his voice thick and sluggish.