Gemotions

He leaned back in his worn leather armchair, the fire crackling merrily in the hearth. A single malt, amber and inviting, sat on the small table beside him. The frantic calls and emails, the veiled hints about a big celebration, had been a source of growing dread. He'd been bracing himself, preparing polite excuses. Then, this afternoon, the phone had rung. The plans, it turned out, were off. He took a slow sip, savoring the warmth that spread through him. The silence of the house was a balm. He reached for a well-worn copy of *Moby Dick*, a familiar comfort.