Gemotions

A sigh escaped from Clara, a sound that seemed to gather the stale air of the apartment and let it out. The newspaper rustled in her lap, the critic's verdict still fresh and stinging. It was a vicious takedown, a public shaming of the innovative new tasting menu that had been her pride. The kitchen, usually her sanctuary, now felt like a cage. She moved to the stove with the sluggishness of a tired swimmer, the metallic tang of regret rising in her throat.

She opened the fridge and stared at the meticulously organized shelves, each container filled with ingredients she had painstakingly sourced and prepared. Now, they were just… ingredients. She didn't feel anything for them. Her hand hovered over a bowl of vibrant berries, then dropped it. "What's the point?" she muttered, the words barely audible. She shut the fridge door.