Gemotions

The newspaper lay open on the counter, the headline screaming its judgment. Chef Antoine stared at it, the words blurring despite his best efforts to focus. His hands trembled as he reached for the lukewarm coffee, the mug nearly slipping from his grasp. He hadn't slept, hadn't eaten. The restaurant, usually filled with the boisterous sounds of happy diners, now felt cavernous and silent, the scent of last night's burnt garlic heavy in the air. He ran a hand through his hair, finding a stubborn knot near his temple, the pressure there a dull ache. "Uninspired," the review declared. "A culinary wasteland." He felt a cold dread crawl up his spine, a sensation that made him want to bolt from his own kitchen.