Gemotions

The garage was a haven, once. Filled with the metallic tang of oil and the satisfying thrum of a finely tuned engine. He and Sam, his son, had spent hours rebuilding cars, the grease and grime a badge of honor. Now, Sam was the master mechanic, the one with the steady hand and the encyclopedic knowledge. He had his own lift, his own tools. He just watched, feeling a wave of inadequacy wash over him, as Sam adjusted the timing on his vintage Corvette. He crossed his arms, feeling the chill of the concrete floor seep into his bones, and looked at the ground.