Gemotions

The critic’s words echoed in Leo's head, each sentence a hammer blow to his carefully constructed confidence. “Flavorless… uninspired… a waste of perfectly good produce.” He sat alone at the bar of "Leo's Bistro," nursing a whiskey. The usual convivial atmosphere of the restaurant felt distant, alien. He watched the few remaining diners, their laughter seeming mocking, their enjoyment a cruel illusion. He thought of all the hours he spent perfecting his techniques, sourcing the best ingredients, struggling to keep his small business afloat. The whiskey burned a path down his throat, but did little to soothe the rawness inside.