Gemotions

The newspaper lay open on the table, the black ink a stain against the white tablecloth. The critic’s words, *“bland and uninspired,”* seemed to scream from the page. Chef Jean-Pierre felt a tremor run through his hands. He wanted to rip the paper to shreds, to burn it, to…

He spun on his heel and strode into the pantry. He grabbed a jar of pickles and threw it against the wall. The glass shattered, the vinegary smell filling the room. He kicked the debris, sending it clattering across the floor.

He needed to cook. Something sharp, something that would burn.