Gemotions

"Desolate," the critic had written, describing the atmosphere of Marco's tiny bistro. Marco slumped onto a stool, the review crumpled in his fist. He felt a hollowness in his chest, a vacuum where his usual buoyant energy resided. He was staring at the empty wine rack. He'd poured his heart and soul into this place, every dish a labor of love.

He got up and began to pace the restaurant's cramped space. He found himself tracing the outline of a faded photograph on the wall. It was a picture of him and his father, taken on the day he’d opened the bistro. His father, a gruff but loving man, had always believed in him. "Your food," he had said, "tells a story."

Marco went to his back room, and pulled out his father's old, worn chef's jacket. He held it up to his face, breathing in the faint scent of garlic and something else… something that reminded him of home. He wanted to go back to that time, and to that place. His heart clenched. He was suddenly overwhelmed with memories.