Gemotions

"Uninspired," the review screamed at Leo. He reread the words in the dimly lit kitchen, his knuckles white as he gripped the page. He felt the blood draining from his face. He checked the gas lines, then the fire extinguishers, again. His breath caught in his throat. This wasn't just a critique; it was an accusation of failure.

He made a fresh pot of coffee, even though it was already brewed. He tasted it repeatedly, certain it was somehow flawed, tainted. He avoided eye contact with his sous chef, thinking he would be judged. He felt the oppressive weight of the kitchen's silence. The clock on the wall seemed to tick louder, each second a countdown to his demise.