Gemotions

Eliza locked herself in the walk-in refrigerator, the cold air doing little to quell the heat rising in her cheeks. The critic's pronouncements still echoed – “overly ambitious,” “unbalanced flavors,” “a waste of ingredients.” She rested her forehead against the cold metal, the chill a small physical representation of the way she was feeling. The stainless steel reflected back her pale face, contorted with a feeling she couldn't name.

She picked at the rogue sprig of parsley clinging to the edge of a plate of her signature dish, the sea bass. The usually vibrant herbs seemed to droop. Each carefully chosen ingredient was now a reminder of her failure.

The restaurant, empty, was silent. Just her, and her food.