Gemotions

The critic’s words, a series of calculated jabs, echoed in Chef Jean-Luc’s mind. His mouth felt dry, his throat constricted. His pulse was racing, as if he'd just run a marathon. The scathing assessment of his signature dish, the bouillabaisse, left him reeling.

He retreated to his office, shutting the door firmly behind him. The small space, usually a sanctuary, now felt like a prison. He felt a need to hide, to become invisible. He wanted to go to sleep.

He ran his hand across his face, scrubbing at it as though he could erase the words. He found himself staring at the phone, tempted to call his wife, but the words wouldn't come. He slumped in his chair, the weight of the restaurant, of the expectations, crushing him.