Gemotions

Eliza slammed the newspaper onto the cutting board, the impact rattling the knives. A cold sweat slicked her palms. Her stomach churned. The critic’s words, venomous and precise, echoed in her mind. “Bland… underseasoned… disappointing.” Her meticulously planned evening service, the culmination of weeks of preparation, seemed to unravel before her eyes. She ran a hand through her hair, tugging at the strands, a frustrated gesture she hadn’t employed in years. "This can't be happening," she muttered, her voice strained.