Gemotions

"Honestly!" Mr. Henderson muttered, his face creased with annoyance. The shrieks of laughter from the children next door were grating on his nerves, especially on a Sunday afternoon. He needed quiet. He needed to focus on his model ship.

He stood, gripping the armrests of his chair. He glanced at the half-finished hull, the tiny details requiring meticulous concentration. This was his sanctuary, his hobby. He closed his eyes for a moment, picturing the ship's completion. The children, he knew, would eventually quiet down.

He sat back, his grip on the chair loosening. He'd lived a long life, had experienced much joy and much sorrow. The children, those noisy youngsters, were experiencing the same. He poured himself a glass of whiskey, a small smile playing on his lips. This moment, at least, was his.