Gemotions

"Bloody hell," Finn cursed, the newspaper crumpling in his fist. He could feel his pulse hammering against his ribs, a frantic rhythm. He wanted to scream. The critic had not only slaughtered his latest creation, but also his legacy.

He threw the paper across the kitchen floor. He had put everything into this restaurant. He had been so proud. Now, the walls seemed to be closing in, the scent of the cooking oil a suffocating blanket. He pushed his chair back, the legs scraping against the floor.

He paced the length of the kitchen, his mind racing. He needed to get out, to escape the suffocating atmosphere. He imagined the faces of the patrons, their disappointed looks. He imagined the whispers. His fists clenched, nails digging into his palms.