Gemotions

“Uninspired. Predictable. A culinary wasteland.” I, chef Leo, read the review again, each word a hammer blow. The restaurant was deserted, the tables bare, the air thick with the residue of failure.

My apartment felt colder than usual as I walked in. I kicked off my shoes, the silence of the space amplifying the hollow echo within me. The city lights outside seemed to mock my isolation.

I grabbed a bottle of wine, the act a familiar ritual. The red liquid did little to dispel the shadows that had taken hold. It was all a bit much, the stillness, the emptiness. The review was a wound that would take a long time to heal.