Gemotions

He stared at the television screen, the plate of "Chef Roberto's Ravioli Revolution" practically mocking him. His throat constricted, making it difficult to swallow. The chef, all slicked-back hair and a smug grin, was demonstrating his "revolutionary" dish. It was his grandmother's recipe. The one he’d painstakingly perfected, the one he'd poured his heart into for years.

His chest felt tight, as if a vise were slowly squeezing. He rose abruptly, knocking over his chair. The wood scraped harshly against the tile floor. He felt a burning sensation behind his eyes. He paced, muttering under his breath, repeating the steps of the recipe, trying to understand how this had happened.

His hands clawed at the air as the chef on screen continued his triumphant demonstration. He grabbed a kitchen knife, his fingers tightening around the handle. He imagined the chef's face, that infuriatingly cheerful grin, and he wanted to scream.