Gemotions

He had poured his heart and soul into the restaurant, and now, it seemed, it was all for nothing. Chef Jean-Pierre crumpled the review in his fist, crushing the paper into a tight ball. The words, so casually destructive, still stung: "pretentious," "overpriced," "utterly charmless." He felt the blood rush to his head, a dizzying wave of anger and humiliation.

He slammed his fist on the table, the force of the blow surprising even himself. He began to pace the confined space of the kitchen, his steps erratic and uncontrolled. He ran a hand through his already disheveled hair, leaving it standing on end. He felt a sudden, overwhelming urge to break something, to shatter the silence.

Jean-Pierre picked up a heavy cast iron pan, his hand trembling. He imagined smashing the review to smithereens. He stared at the pan for a long moment, his chest heaving with ragged breaths, before letting it fall back onto the burner with a metallic clang.