Gemotions

The newspaper lay open on the kitchen table, the offending column circled in furious red. David, usually a picture of calm efficiency, found himself unable to eat his morning toast. He pushed the plate away, the bread suddenly seeming inedible. He had spent months perfecting the duck confit, the critic's verdict reducing it to a mere "greasy mess." He rose, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. He stalked towards the window, his breath fogging the glass. The city skyline outside seemed to mock him with its indifference.