Gemotions

The critic’s words echoed in his mind, each syllable a blow. “Flavorless… pedestrian….” Chef Jean, normally composed, was now pacing the small kitchen like a caged lion. He picked up a knife, examined its gleaming edge, and then slammed it back onto the counter. The sound was deafening. He poured himself a shot of whiskey, his hand trembling. He didn’t drink, not usually. He took a gulp, the burning sensation doing little to soothe the rage that coiled within him. His eyes burned with unshed tears.