Gemotions

The review, a venomous serpent of words, lay open on the worn kitchen counter. Chef Antoine stared at it, the newsprint blurring through the film of tears that suddenly welled in his eyes. He’d poured his heart into that duck confit, a dish that had once been a source of such joy, a memory of his late wife’s approving smile. Now, the critic called it “an oily, uninspired mess.” His stomach clenched, a cold fist squeezing the life out of him. He slammed the newspaper down, the sound echoing in the silent, empty restaurant.

He dragged a hand across his face, scrubbing at the moisture. He couldn’t breathe properly, each inhalation shallow and ragged. The weight of it all – the restaurant’s failing finances, the anniversary of her passing just days away – threatened to crush him. He stumbled towards the back door, the clatter of the pans in the kitchen suddenly deafening.

He needed air, space. He pushed open the heavy oak door and stood in the alley, the cold October wind biting at his exposed skin. The sky was an oppressive gray, mirroring the emptiness inside him. He felt nothing but a vast, consuming hollowness.