Gemotions

The newsprint felt rough against Antoine’s fingertips as he re-read the review, the ink smudging slightly under his nervous touch. He'd been so sure, so absolutely certain, that the Critics' Corner would sing his praises. Now, this… this evisceration. His stomach churned, a cold knot forming in the pit. He ran a hand through his already dishevelled hair, the action somehow failing to soothe the rising tide of unease. He paced his small kitchen, the rhythmic thud of his boots against the tile floor the only sound besides the gentle hum of the refrigerator.

He found himself staring at the wall where he'd pinned the article, the words mocking him. The critic had called his bouillabaisse “a watery insult,” the coq au vin “a culinary crime.” He’d poured his heart and soul into that menu. He felt a deep, disquieting ache in his chest, a sensation he couldn't quite name.

He picked up a chef's knife and began aimlessly chopping a carrot, the repetitive motion doing little to quell the agitation coursing through him. He imagined the critic's face, the words dripping with disdain. He slammed the knife down, the sound echoing in the silent kitchen. "No," he muttered to himself, "This can't be right."