Gemotions

"Perfect Pesto Pasta," the menu read. Sarah’s eyes blurred as she stared at the words, the familiar font and the picture of the pasta dish mimicking hers. She felt a weight press down on her chest, stealing her breath. She'd only known how to do one thing.

Years she had spent perfecting it, the ratios of basil to pine nuts, the precise amount of olive oil. Her whole livelihood, the small Italian restaurant she’d built, revolved around this one dish. She felt her chest constrict.

She ran her hand over the counter, the smooth, cool wood a meager comfort. The restaurant depended on her, her staff depended on her, her family relied on her. She had to keep the restaurant alive. The fear of failure, of letting everyone down, felt like a physical burden.

"Order up!" the cook called. Sarah forced a smile, her legs carrying her to the kitchen. She had to keep going.