Gemotions

The newspaper crinkled in Jean-Pierre's clenched fist. He reread the damning review, the critic's words like tiny needles pricking at his skin. “Lackluster,” the critic had written, “bereft of the innovative spark that once defined Le Coq d’Or.” He slammed the paper onto the stainless steel counter, the sound echoing in the otherwise silent kitchen. Empty. The tables, the chairs – all vacant. He wanted to scream.

He kicked a stray crate of tomatoes. The soft thud did little to soothe the growing ache in his chest. His hands trembled as he poured himself a glass of water. It tasted like ash. He'd poured his heart and soul into that duck confit, the very dish that had been the critic's main target. Now, he felt utterly hollow.

The phone rang. It was his wife. He let the machine pick up.