Gemotions

The review, a venomous serpent of typed words, swam before Leo's eyes. It was pinned to the stainless steel of his prep station. He reached for it, his hand trembling so hard he missed and knocked over a jar of pickled onions. The pungent smell hit him like a physical blow. He stared at the mess, his breath catching. He usually hated wasting food, but he just stood there, watching the onions spill onto the floor.

He vaguely remembered the critic, a woman with a severe bun and a detached gaze. He’d tried to be charming, described the hours spent sourcing the perfect heirloom tomatoes. Now, the tomatoes were probably bruised, rotting in the back. He felt his stomach twist, a hollow ache that spread outwards.

He leaned against the cold steel, the familiar texture suddenly unfamiliar. He thought he should call his wife, but the phone seemed impossibly far away. Instead, he found himself pulling a clean apron from the stack, carefully smoothing out the creases, a meaningless act of ritual.