Gemotions

The steam from the pasta pot fogged up his glasses. He wiped them with a stained towel, the motion automatic. Chef Leo looked out at the dining room, filled with chattering patrons, oblivious to the storm brewing in his soul.

He had expected the review to be positive. He had worked tirelessly, refining every detail, every ingredient. The critic's cutting words had felt like a personal betrayal. “Uninspired,” the critic had written, “a chef coasting on past glories.”

He turned back to the stove, the heat against his face. He felt like a machine, going through the motions. He would continue to cook, of course. What else could he do? He had bills to pay, staff to manage, a reputation to maintain, even though it felt like it meant nothing.

The pasta was cooked, he added the sauce, and plated it perfectly, his hands performing each step without a flicker of excitement.