Gemotions

The newspaper lay crumpled on the floor of the walk-in cooler, beneath a basket of wilting herbs. Marco found it there, kicked it there, maybe. He didn't remember. He’d gone to check the temperature, a mindless ritual.

He leaned against the cold metal, a shiver running down his spine despite the heat of the kitchen. He could feel the familiar fatigue settling in his bones, the dull ache of countless hours. The critic had called his signature dish, the one he'd spent years perfecting, "a pale imitation."

He closed his eyes for a moment, the chill seeping into him. The words echoed in his mind, each syllable a blow. The passion, once a roaring blaze, was now a dying ember. Tomorrow he would open the doors. He always did.

His eyes opened, a single thought flitting across his mind. Why bother?