Gemotions

"Mediocre." The single word, printed in bold, loomed over everything. Chef Ingrid’s vision blurred with what felt like a red-hot fury. She stared at the review, printed in glossy black ink, which felt like an accusation. She crumpled it in her fist, then tossed it into the nearest bin.

Her hands moved on their own, finding a pristine white apron and furiously tying it around her waist. She grabbed a chef's knife and moved towards the butcher block, the wooden surface feeling familiar and comforting under her knuckles. Her teeth grinded.

The cleaver sliced into the piece of raw beef with a fierce chop. Another, and another. Each cut was a release, a small victory against the sting of the review, the sting of being belittled. She did not like this.