Gemotions

He ripped the newspaper from the rack, the headline screaming at him. “Culinary Catastrophe!” it blared. Marco, the head chef, felt a coldness wash over him, as if someone had poured ice water down his back. He crumpled the paper, the sound sharp in the empty restaurant. He grabbed a broom and began sweeping the already spotless floor with unnecessary vigor. His knuckles were white. “Catastrophe?” he muttered under his breath, his voice thick with a simmering anger. He slammed the broom into a corner. His face was flushed, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He needed a drink, a strong one.