Gemotions

The newspaper lay crumpled on the floor, a testament to Marco’s fury. The critic had called his pasta carbonara "clumsy" and his tiramisu "pedestrian." He kicked the discarded paper, the act a release of pent-up anger. He needed to do something, anything.

He strode into the dining room, empty but for a lone busboy. "Clear the tables," he commanded, his voice tight. "We’re rearranging everything." He gestured toward the existing decor. He was making a statement. He was going to transform the restaurant into something new.

He started sketching ideas on a napkin, disregarding his exhaustion. He started a complete renovation. He was going to shock the city.