Gemotions

"Absolute rubbish," the chef muttered, crumpling the review in his hand. Jean-Pierre stared at the wadded paper, then flung it across the kitchen. The stainless steel surfaces gleamed coldly, reflecting his own disheveled appearance. He'd always been a perfectionist, but the critic's words had landed like a hammer blow. The review called his bistro, "Le Petit Poisson," a “culinary graveyard.”

He couldn't bring himself to cook, to even look at the ingredients. The vibrant colors of the vegetables, the pungent aroma of garlic, they all felt wrong, tainted. He retreated to his tiny apartment above the restaurant, the climb up the narrow staircase a monumental effort. He switched off the lights and curled up on the small bed.