Gemotions

“I swear, the texture is completely wrong,” Martha muttered, stabbing a fork into a slice of "Aunt Millie's Apple Cake." The cafe was packed, filled with the aroma of cinnamon and a sickening sweetness. She looked around the room, seeing people happily devouring what was, essentially, her hard work.

She ran a hand through her hair, a gesture that dislodged a few strands. The real recipe, the one she painstakingly perfected over years, called for a specific type of apple. A granny smith. This, however, was clearly made with some cheap imposter. She felt a heat rise in her cheeks, a flush of annoyance that threatened to boil over. She couldn't even enjoy her coffee.