Gemotions

The review, a black smear on the bright white tablecloth of his ambition, lay open before him. Chef Antoine stared at the merciless words, the critic's scathing judgments. He felt as if his limbs were weighted, his movements slow and deliberate, as he reached for the lukewarm coffee. Each sip felt like a monumental effort. He hadn’t bothered shaving, and a tremor ran through his hand as he brought the cup to his lips.

He dragged himself into the kitchen. The stainless steel, usually a source of comfort, now reflected his own disheveled state. The rhythmic clatter of pans and the sizzle of food, once music to his ears, sounded muffled, distant. He barked orders to his staff with little enthusiasm, his voice flat, devoid of its usual energy.

He leaned against the cold countertop, watching his sous chefs move with a practiced grace he couldn't seem to muster. His usual focus seemed to have evaporated. He rubbed his temples, a dull ache throbbing behind his eyes.