Gemotions

The scathing critique had been left on the answering machine, a venomous recorded voice. Chef Rosa paced her tiny apartment, the walls seeming to shrink with each circuit. The voice was still replaying in her mind "flavorless", "lacking soul", "a pale imitation". She felt the world tilt on its axis.

She started tearing through her apartment, not thinking, just moving. Throwing things off shelves, overturning furniture, the chaos reflecting the turmoil inside her. The beautiful, organized world she had constructed, one carefully considered dish at a time, was crumbling around her. She ripped up her sketches for new dishes, tossing them in the air.

Rosa sank to the floor, her breath coming in short, gasping bursts. She curled into a fetal position, wanting to disappear, to vanish from the face of the earth.