Gemotions

The air in the restaurant was thick with the scent of garlic and expectation. The chef, her cousin, had insisted. "Just trust me!" he'd pleaded. Now, the pasta sculptures, her whimsical, edible creations, were the centerpiece of every table.

People were snapping photos, discussing the "avant-garde presentation." She felt her stomach churn. She hated the texture of the dough, the way the sauce dripped. She’d made them for fun, a silly hobby. Now, they were a spectacle. She wanted to sink into the floor.