Gemotions

The flickering neon sign of “Luigi’s” buzzed incessantly, mirroring the frantic dance of Amelia’s pulse. She clenched and unclenched her fists, her knuckles white. Across the street, the line for “Mama Rosa’s Ravioli” snaked down the block. A bitter taste coated her tongue – the same bitterness she’d felt for weeks as the accolades piled up for a dish she’d painstakingly crafted. The newspaper clipping in her pocket, the one showcasing a photo of *that* ravioli, felt heavy as lead.

Her fingers traced the crease of the article. Every single detail. The perfectly formed pasta pockets. The rich filling. She had to swallow to make sure her throat didn’t close. She took a step forward, and then another, drawn towards the crowd like a moth to a dangerous flame.

She should have kept the recipe to herself, she thought, the thought a sharp pang of regret. The whole damn thing. That awful woman, Rosa, who had befriended her, and then, after discovering the recipe notebook, had slowly, sweetly, extracted it.