Gemotions

Rain lashed against the windows of Le Petit Cochon, mirroring the tempest in Antoine’s chest. He stared, unseeing, at the crumpled newspaper. The critic’s words – “culinary disaster,” “bland,” “lacking inspiration” – were seared into his memory. He slumped onto a stool, the weight of the scathing review pressing down on him. The scent of onions sautéing, normally a comfort, now felt like a taunt.

He barely touched his dinner. The carefully crafted coq au vin, usually a source of pride, now seemed like a hollow mockery of his efforts. The kitchen, once his sanctuary, felt like a prison. He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture of profound distress.

The evening's few patrons murmured as they departed. He didn't even try to meet their eyes.