Gemotions

She flipped the page of the local newspaper and her eyes landed on the damning headline. "Amelia's: A Culinary Catastrophe." It was a scathing indictment of her life’s work. She took a sip of lukewarm coffee, the taste utterly unremarkable.

The morning sun streamed through the kitchen window, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. Amelia watched them, a small, detached observer. Her hands, usually a flurry of motion, were still. She ran a hand through her unkempt hair.

The phone on the wall remained silent. She glanced at the clock: 8:03 AM. Time to start the prep for tonight’s service, she supposed. Might as well.