Gemotions

She slammed the newspaper onto the counter, the headline screaming its judgment. "Amateur Night at the Bistro!" It felt like a punch to the gut. Chef Eleanor ran a hand through her hair, finding herself tugging at the strands. The kitchen, usually her sanctuary, suddenly felt like a pressure cooker.

Her legs felt like lead. She’d been so sure, poured her heart and soul into every dish. Now, the reviewer dismissed it all with a few cruel sentences. She needed to do something, anything. She grabbed a towel and started wiping down the counter, even though it was already spotless.

The rhythmic movement, back and forth, back and forth, offered a strange sort of comfort. Her vision seemed to narrow, focusing only on the pale surface and the relentless swiping. She replayed the evening in her mind. Did she forget the salt? Did she undercook the risotto? She felt a growing sense of detachment, as if she were watching herself from outside her body.