Gemotions

Eliza fidgeted with the hem of her apron. Her fingers danced across the fabric, seeking some comfort in the familiar texture. She'd reread the scathing critique in the morning, and the acid words burned her even now. The critic, known for her sharp tongue, had eviscerated her signature dish, the "Sunset Salmon." She felt a pressure in her chest, a tightness that made it difficult to breathe.

The restaurant was strangely quiet tonight. Usually, by now, the place would be buzzing with chatter and the clatter of silverware. Now, the space felt vast and empty, reflecting the hollowness inside her. She gripped the counter, knuckles white, waiting for the dinner rush that felt like a tidal wave about to crash down.