Gemotions

He slammed the review down on the table, the paper folding in a way that seemed to mirror his own inner crumpling. Chef Marco felt a heat surge through his face, his ears ringing. "Amateur," the critic had sneered, dismissing his meticulously crafted tasting menu as "pretentious garbage." He shoved a hand through his hair, leaving it standing on end.

He grabbed his phone and called his wife, a sob threatening to escape. He wouldn't show weakness, not here, not in the kitchen. He mumbled something about needing to take a walk, and hung up. He needed air. He stormed outside, his heavy footsteps echoing on the cobblestone street.

He found himself pacing back and forth, muttering to himself, "Pretentious? Garbage?" Every movement felt jerky, out of sync. He lit a cigarette, the flame of the lighter dancing in front of his eyes. He inhaled deeply, the smoke doing little to calm the turbulent waters within.