Gemotions

Eliza slammed the kitchen door, the wood rattling in its frame. Her assistant, Marco, jumped. The review, pinned to the bulletin board, seemed to leer. "Bland… predictable… devoid of passion." Eliza grabbed a cleaver and attacked a butternut squash, the rhythmic thud a percussive beat against the silence. Each slice was razor-thin, each dice precise. She wouldn’t change a thing. Every dish was a testament to her vision. She would not bow to some critic’s whims. She would only get better.