Gemotions

The afternoon sun streamed into the empty dining room, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. Richard polished a wine glass, turning it this way and that to catch the light. The silence, broken only by the rhythmic swish of the cloth, was a balm to his frayed nerves. He ran his hand over the smooth, cool surface of the mahogany bar, feeling the familiar grain. He'd built this place from the ground up, and today, it was his, and no one else’s. He would deal with the words, eventually.