Gemotions

Eliza slammed the newspaper onto the cutting board. "Terrible. Just terrible," she muttered, the critic's review a cruel spotlight on her passion fruit mousse. Her stomach churned, a mixture of disappointment and… something else. She reread the critique of the texture, the lack of zest, her usual bravado crumbling with each sentence. He – the critic, that is – had been so calm, so observant. She remembered his intense gaze as he tasted each course, his polite smile, the way his dark eyes held a hint of… something. Her hands felt clumsy, useless.

She pushed aside the newspaper and began pacing her tiny kitchen, replaying the evening in her mind. She should have added more lime zest. She should have been bolder. She needed to make it better, so much better, not for the restaurant, but for him. She pictured him, tall and lean with kind eyes, tasting the new dish, and imagined the smile that would touch his lips. She picked up a cookbook, her fingers tracing the cover, eager to try again.