Gemotions

The review, a vicious dissection of his life's work, lay crumpled on the kitchen counter, stained with grease from the pan he’d just finished scrubbing. Chef Jean-Pierre stared at it, the words blurring through unshed tears. His hands trembled as he poured himself a shot of cheap whiskey, the amber liquid a temporary distraction from the gnawing hollowness in his chest. He hadn't slept properly in days, the critic's pronouncements echoing in his head. The restaurant, once filled with laughter, now felt like a mausoleum. He needed to make it work, somehow, he had to.

He yanked open the refrigerator, the fluorescent light harsh on his face. He'd lost everything, from his wife to his home to this restaurant. The thought of losing this too… he couldn’t stomach it. The food, the passion, all meant nothing now. A wave of nausea washed over him as he saw the ingredients he had spent so long preparing. He needed to get it together, for god's sake.