Gemotions

The critic’s harsh pronouncements echoed through the otherwise empty dining room. A chill, like the touch of a specter, ran down Jean-Pierre’s spine. He felt a desperate need to flee, to vanish into the night. His palms were slick, and he scrubbed them repeatedly against his apron.

He imagined the patrons who would never return, the empty tables, the inevitable closure. The weight of his failures, real and imagined, crushed him. He closed his eyes and whispered a curse. He wanted to go home and never cook again.