Gemotions

"Mediocre…uninspired…forgettable." The review, folded neatly in his pocket, felt like a lead weight. Chef Julien stared at the blinking cursor on his laptop screen, the words he had to write to his investors looming before him. He was a professional, he told himself. He had to stay composed.

He rubbed his temples, a dull ache throbbing behind his eyes. He tried to focus, but his thoughts kept snagging on the critic’s brutal assessment. He wanted to shout, to smash something, but his body felt heavy, his movements sluggish.

He looked at the unfinished email. He couldn’t bring himself to type another word. He pushed back from his desk, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. He needed air, he thought. He needed to be alone. He opened the door to his apartment, the hallway stretching before him, an unfamiliar path he had to navigate.