Gemotions

The newspaper crinkled in Martha’s fist, the glossy picture of “Chef Ricardo’s Spicy Shrimp Scampi” mocking her from the page. Her jaw clenched so hard she thought her teeth might shatter. This was HER recipe, the one she’d painstakingly perfected over thirty years, the one she called “Martha’s Fiery Fusion.”

She slammed the paper onto the kitchen table, scattering crumbs and coffee rings. The aroma of rosemary, usually comforting, now felt like a taunt. Her hands were trembling, and she felt a heat rising in her chest, a burning sensation that threatened to consume her.

“Damn him,” she muttered, her voice raspy. She stalked to the pantry, yanking open the door with a force that sent a jar of pickles tumbling to the floor.