Tension.

He needed to be written out of my life, but could not be for fear of dullness. His fury contrived to clash with my desire for a serene lifestyle; lounging pool-side under impossibly clear skies, or in cafes, the coffee unlimited, the newspapers and magazines delivered to my table with double chocolate brownies, or wandering aimlessly around the city, vicariously absorbing the sensation of people going about their work and play. This idyllic routine was tempered by his stifling existence. He was my dramatic tension.