Gemotions

"Mediocre," the critic had written. Chef Ricardo, reading the word, felt his stomach clench. He ran his hand over his close-cropped hair. He felt a building pressure behind his eyes. He couldn't understand. He had poured his heart and soul into this restaurant.

He slammed the paper down on the counter. He needed to get out, to be away from the stagnant, disappointed air of the kitchen. He grabbed his keys, the metal cool against his palm. He needed to get to the market. He had to find something, some ingredient, that would jolt him back into action. The clock was ticking.