Gemotions

The review, a vicious, venom-laced essay, lay open on the stainless steel counter. Chef Antoine stared at it, the words blurring like oil on water. He pushed the paper away, the abrupt movement sending a cascade of rogue peppercorns scattering across the pristine surface. He flinched, as if the tiny spices were needles piercing his skin. He felt a churning in his stomach, a deep unease that threatened to bubble to the surface. He felt his face flush with heat.

He grabbed a damp rag and began scrubbing the counter with unnecessary force, the repetitive motion doing little to quell the turmoil within him. The critic had savaged his signature dish, the one he'd poured his heart and soul into. The critic’s words, a series of dismissive observations, were worse than a physical blow.

He slammed the rag down, the sound echoing in the empty kitchen. “Damn him,” he muttered, his voice tight. He turned away, his shoulders slumping, and the image of the critic's smiling face filled his mind. He wanted to wipe that smirk off him.