Gemotions

The critic's review sat on the kitchen counter, a paper executioner. Chef Isabella, usually the picture of grace, felt a tremor run through her. The words mocked her, echoing in the quiet space.

She pulled out a bottle of her finest olive oil and poured it liberally over a pristine white tablecloth. She then systematically and purposefully dripped more olive oil until the cloth was soaked.

She stared down at the mess she'd made, a burning sensation in her chest. Every element of her life, every effort, seemed to be tainted.