Gemotions

A cold sweat slicked down Marco's back as he stared at the words on his phone: *“The pasta, a soggy insult to Italian cuisine.”* He tossed the device onto the greasy stovetop, the screen flashing the critic’s name: Mrs. Evelyn Thorne. He’d known her reputation. He'd hoped he could win her over. Clearly, not.

He stalked through the already dim dining room. The red velvet booths seemed to mock him. His restaurant, once bustling, was now nearly empty. The few patrons present ate with a distinct lack of joy. Marco's stomach churned. He could feel it twisting, a hard knot of frustration.

He slammed his fist on the counter. His head throbbed. He should have listened to Maria, his sous chef. She'd warned him about that sauce.