Gemotions

Sweat beaded on Marco's forehead as he stared at the laptop screen. The words – “bland,” “uninspired,” “lacked any semblance of culinary artistry” – swam before his eyes. He let out a long, slow breath, a strange lightness filling his chest. He clicked the screen shut. He’d braced himself for a firestorm, for the inevitable decline in reservations. He wasn't prepared for the… emptiness. He walked to the window, the kitchen lights of his restaurant twinkling below. He should be devastated. Instead, he felt a pull, a lightness. He pulled out a worn notebook and a pen from his apron. Time to rewrite the menu.