Gemotions

"Dreadful." The word, in bold, capital letters, glared at Chef Irina from the newspaper. She crumpled the paper in her hand, the ink smearing across her palm. She squeezed it until it felt like a cold stone. Her face was flushed, her cheeks burning with a heat that was entirely internal.

She threw the paper to the floor, then kicked it, sending it skittering across the floor. She slammed her fist on the counter, again and again, each blow accompanied by a strangled gasp. "No!" she cried, the sound raw and broken.

The kitchen, her sanctuary, her domain, suddenly felt like a cage. She started pacing, her steps quick and agitated, bumping into tables, knocking over a rack of spices. She felt a burning sensation in her throat, a pressure that was both physical and emotional.