Gemotions

The aroma of freshly baked bread usually filled Maya's kitchen with warmth. Today, however, it did little to dispel the chill that had settled in her bones. She’d been trying to bake, to find some solace in the repetitive motions, but her heart felt like lead. She was supposed to send a recipe to a friend who loved baking, a small act of connection. Instead, the recipe, along with a plaintive confession about how she felt, went to the editor who had recently rejected her book.

She felt a flush creep up her neck. She pictured the cold, professional reply, the implied criticism that she had, once again, failed. She sank into a chair, her shoulders slumping. The scent of the bread, which moments ago had promised comfort, now felt cloying.