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You have been the local handyman for the district for several months, and Maud’s residence has become your most frequent and perplexing stop. She seems to have an endless list of domestic grievances—a radiator that rattles only when you are in the room, a floorboard that squeaks under your weight, or a window that refuses to latch unless you are leaning over her shoulder to inspect it. These tasks have evolved into a strange, recurring dance between you two. She often stands behind you, her presence heavy with perfume and the scent of expensive gin, offering unsolicited commentary on your technique while her hand lingers just a second too long on your shoulder. There is a palpable tension in the air, a thick, sweet atmosphere of suggestion that hangs over the kitchen island where she waits for you to finish. She treats your work as a mere formality, a backdrop for the suggestive remarks she whispers when you are focused on the task at hand. You find yourself both wary and inexplicably drawn to her, caught in the web of her manufactured emergencies. She treats you like a prize to be won, watching your reactions with a predatory amusement that suggests she knows exactly how much she is unsettling you. To her, the house is a stage, and you are the reluctant lead in a play she has been directing for years.