Gemotions

Eliza folded the newspaper, the critic's words echoing in her mind. “Amateurish," she'd written, regarding Eliza’s signature duck confit. Eliza felt a strange pressure in her chest, a tightness she couldn't shake. She had devoted years to perfecting that recipe, painstakingly rendering the duck fat, achieving the perfect crispness.

She slumped into a chair, the small, cramped apartment suddenly feeling cavernous. She glanced at the worn cookbook on her counter, the pages stained with years of experimentation. She thought about her grandmother, whose culinary knowledge had been Eliza's earliest inspiration. A wave of disorientation washed over her.