Gemotions

A sigh escaped David's lips as he settled into the plush armchair, the leather cool against his skin. The gentle clinking of ice in his glass of scotch accompanied his slow, deliberate breaths. He ran a hand across his beard, feeling the soft hairs between his fingers. The jazz music from the record player filled the room. This was his sanctuary, the hour before dinner, a ritual he wouldn't trade. He watched the light move over the polished wood of his collection’s shelves, his gaze drifting from one model train to the next, tracing their intricate details.