Gemotions

A damp dishcloth lay abandoned on the counter, a testament to the fact that Arthur had already tackled as much of the kitchen as he could bear. The thought of chopping vegetables for dinner felt particularly arduous. He’d planned to make his grandmother's chili, a recipe passed down through generations. He’d even written it down, a crumpled piece of paper that had made its way into his recipe book, which hadn't been touched in months.

His phone buzzed. It was a forwarded tweet from a friend, praising the "Grandma Rose's Chili" at a new food truck downtown. Arthur knew exactly what "Grandma Rose's Chili" was. It was his. The recipe was word for word, the exact same measurements, the same peculiar spice combination. He slumped onto a stool. The thought of getting up, going downtown, and confronting the situation felt like traversing a desert.

"Might as well order takeout," he muttered, reaching for the menu on his fridge.