Gemotions

“Absolutely appalling,” Beatrice muttered under her breath, staring at the newspaper clipping. The critic, that pompous windbag, had savaged her signature dish. Her hands trembled as she set down her coffee cup, the ceramic clinking against the saucer. The world felt too loud, the hum of the fridge a grating annoyance.

She rubbed her temples, trying to find some purchase, some sanity. The critic had called her food "bland," "uninspired," and the worst of all, "pedestrian." The accusations stung like a whip. She started to pace, her movements quick and restless.

She picked up a knife, idly running her thumb along the blade. She hadn’t slept. Every time she closed her eyes, she was back in the kitchen, the critic's words echoing through her mind. The thought of facing the staff, of fielding their pitying glances, sent a fresh wave of heat through her.