Gemotions

The review sat on the laminated counter, a beacon of pure, unadulterated bile. Chef Marco slammed the kitchen tongs onto the stainless steel, the sound echoing in the near-empty restaurant. *“Lacking passion,”* the critic had written. *“A culinary wasteland.”* He ripped the paper from the counter and crumpled it, the edges biting into his palm.

He stalked back to the stove, where the halibut sizzled in butter. He should have just closed the damn place down. Every single server had been complaining, the food was too expensive, the rent was insane. He grabbed the fish and slammed it down on the plate, a white explosion on the perfect black slate.

He flung the plate at the server. "Take that to table six." His throat was tight, and the words came out like gravel.