Gemotions

Eliza, the owner of "The Gilded Spoon," stared out the rain-streaked window. The critic had called her signature duck confit "a greasy exercise in mediocrity." Her hands itched, and she compulsively straightened the already perfect place settings. She'd been in a rut, churning out the same dishes, feeling… flat. She drummed her fingers on the cold marble countertop, a restless rhythm against the quiet. The clock ticked, each second amplifying her discontent. She felt a growing need to *do* something, to break the monotony. She grabbed a towel, and violently began to wipe down the bar, as if the scrubbing could wipe away the stinging words.