Gemotions

"So, you're a… chef?" Sarah repeated, her voice thin. She stared at the man across the table, across the remains of the suspiciously bland “five-star” meal he had prepared. The restaurant, supposedly *his* – an intimate, highly-exclusive establishment – looked suspiciously like her aunt’s converted garage.

She tapped her fork against the plate, the sound sharp and insistent. Each word he had uttered, each elaborate lie about his demanding schedule, his creative process, now felt like a personal insult. A flush of heat crept up her neck, coloring her cheeks.

Her fingers tightened around her silverware. His “secret ingredients,” his “passion for local produce” seemed like a cruel joke. She stood, abruptly, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. “I have to go,” she said, her voice tight, barely above a whisper. She didn't wait for a response.