Gemotions

I ripped the review from the paper and crumpled it in my fist. *“A culinary disaster,”* the critic had written. My legs felt weak, like the air had been sucked out of the room. I leaned against the cold stainless steel of the counter, the metal pressing into my back. It felt like the critic was sitting right there, laughing at me.

I wanted to throw something, break something. My hands clenched and unclenched.

I stared at the pristine, empty dining room. All the work, all the sacrifices. All for nothing, it seemed. I felt a hollowness I couldn't explain.