Gemotions

The restaurant was empty. Chef Jean looked at the empty tables and the darkened windows and knew it was the review. "A shallow pretense," it had said about his fusion cuisine. He felt a sharp pang in his side, a physical manifestation of the hurt. He ran his hand across his stubbled jaw.

He tried to distract himself by cleaning the stove, but the task was mechanical and unfulfilling. He kept replaying the critic's words in his head, each one a fresh assault. He walked to the window, watching the rain streak down the glass, blurring the city lights. He felt trapped, suffocated by the walls of his own creation.