Gemotions

The review sat on the kitchen counter, a stark white rectangle of judgment. Chef Antoine stared at it, the words blurring through a sudden film forming over his eyes. He’d poured his heart into that tasting menu, weeks of late nights, meticulously sourcing ingredients, and now... this. He ran a hand through his already disheveled hair, the gesture more a reflex of frustration than an attempt at neatness.

He’d skipped breakfast, somehow forgetting. The emptiness in his stomach matched the hollow ache spreading through his chest. He reached for the coffee pot, but the effort felt monumental, the simple act of pouring a cup of coffee a weight he didn’t know if he could lift.

He considered calling his sous chef, Marco, but the thought of conversation, of explaining, of feigning indifference, was too much. He wandered instead, aimlessly, through the near-empty restaurant, the hushed silence amplifying the pounding in his head.