Gemotions

"Just leave me be," Marco mumbled, his voice thick with a feeling he wouldn't admit to. He pushed away his plate of pasta, the sauce a congealed mess. The review – "pretentious," "lacking finesse," "a pale imitation" – sat beside him on the table. He'd folded it into a small square, and it felt heavy.

He spent the rest of the evening at his usual booth in the corner of his own restaurant, nursing a glass of wine. The vibrant lights of the dining room blurred into hazy shadows. The laughter of customers, usually a pleasant soundtrack, now grated on his ears. He traced the rim of his glass with his finger, a rhythm of despair.