Gemotions

Rain hammered against the window of the small bistro, mirroring the tempest brewing inside Chef Elena. Her hands, normally a flurry of graceful motion, were stiff as she stared at the offending article, the ink of the scathing review seeming to mock her from the page. “Bland,” the critic had written, “utterly devoid of flavor.” Elena felt a burning heat prickle her cheeks.

She shoved the review aside, her movements abrupt. The scent of onions and garlic, usually a comfort, now felt oppressive. She grabbed a towel and scrubbed at the already spotless counter, as though trying to physically erase the words from her memory. The air in the kitchen felt thick, difficult to breathe.

She muttered under her breath, a string of frustrated Spanish words. Elena picked up the phone, intending to call her sister, but abruptly slammed it back down. No, she couldn’t bear to have someone see her like this. She needed to be alone.