Gemotions

The critic’s words, a brutal demolition of Jean-Pierre's latest tasting menu, hung in the air like a poisoned gas. He read them again, a slow, deliberate process, each syllable a blow. He expected to feel a crushing weight, the familiar ache of failure. Instead, a peculiar sensation, like a balloon slowly deflating inside him, filled the void. He stood, walked to the bar, and poured himself a generous measure of scotch. The amber liquid tasted… good. He needed to get out of the kitchen.