Gemotions

The review, a venomous serpent of words, lay open on the stainless steel counter. Chef Antoine slammed his fist down, rattling the spice rack. He pictured the critic, a smug man with a perfectly sculpted beard, scribbling notes with a predatory glint in his eye. His chest felt tight, a band of iron constricting his breath. He needed air, had to get out of the suffocating kitchen.

He grabbed his coat, a movement that felt jerky, unnatural. The door slammed shut behind him with unnecessary force. Outside, the city roared, a symphony of sirens and hurried footsteps that usually invigorated him. Today, it felt like an assault.

He pushed his way through the bustling crowd, the faces a blur of indifference. He needed a cigarette, a vice he’d abandoned years ago. The craving clawed at him, a desperate plea for something to ground him. He pictured the critic's face again and clenched his jaw.