Gemotions

The email sat in Martha’s inbox, glowing with the harsh light of betrayal. It was from her closest friend, Emily, and it praised the new cookbook by a famous chef, citing a particular soup recipe as a stroke of genius. Martha had recognised it instantly. The same combination of herbs, the same slow cooking process, the exact subtle notes of lemon. The soup was hers, something they'd made together countless times.

Her jaw clenched. The kitchen, once her sanctuary, now felt like a battleground. She scrubbed at the counter with unnecessary force, the soapy water splashing onto her hands. Her cheeks burned.

She ripped off her apron, the action more violent than necessary. The mundane objects around her seemed to mock her, the ladle and pot and wooden spoon. She grabbed her keys and fled out the door. The familiar streets felt unfamiliar, alien.