Gemotions

"Uninspired… predictable… lacking nuance." The phrases echoed in Maya’s head, mocking her. She crumpled the newspaper in her fist, the crinkling sound grating on her nerves. The critic had called her restaurant, "a culinary graveyard." She slammed the paper onto the table, the force making the silverware jump. A fine sheen of sweat coated her forehead, despite the cool air conditioning in the empty dining room.

She paced the length of the room, her steps quick and agitated, like a caged animal. Every detail – the carefully chosen artwork, the linen napkins, the meticulously arranged floral centerpieces – suddenly felt cheap, futile. She chewed on her lip, a habit she'd long abandoned, the taste of blood a bitter counterpoint to the sweetness she’d always strived for in her food.