Gemotions

The critic’s poison flowed through Chef Isabella’s veins. She forced herself to finish plating the last dish of the night, but her hands were clumsy, her movements jerky. She felt a cold dread settle in her stomach. The review, which called her restaurant "a monument to mediocrity," had left her feeling stripped bare.

Later, she stared at the empty dining room, the remnants of a failed evening. She went to the back and ran her hands down the stainless steel work bench. Every detail of the restaurant that she had taken so much pride in, now felt grotesque. She found herself obsessively checking the cleanliness of every surface, the tightness of every screw.

She suddenly felt the need to destroy something.