Gemotions

The steam from the pot on the stove was suddenly oppressive, clinging to her skin as if it were a lover's breath. She'd always called it "Grandma Rose's Secret," a simple tomato sauce, passed down through generations. Now, the glossy magazine article declared "Chef Antoine’s Provencal Passion" was the latest culinary sensation. Her fingers, which had been deftly stirring, now trembled slightly, the wooden spoon clattering against the ceramic. She felt a heat creep up her neck, a blush she knew the article had caused.

She glanced out the window, at the setting sun painting the sky in fiery hues, mimicking the fire building in her belly. Antoine, that scoundrel, had stolen her recipe, dressed it up in fancy words, and taken all the glory. She felt a compulsion to do something, to act.

A low moan escaped her lips as she slammed the ladle down, the sound echoing in the kitchen.