Gemotions

Eliza crumpled the review in her fist, the paper crackling like bones. The critic called her "pedestrian." Pedestrian! Her restaurant, The Copper Kettle, was a labour of love, not some damn street corner.

She found herself staring at the gleaming, empty bar. The usual jovial buzz of Friday night had been replaced by a quiet pall. Instead of the usual Friday night specials, she started a "critic-approved" special on the menu.

The next morning, Eliza drove past the critic's house, parked down the street, and watched. She sat and waited, and saw him leave for his morning run. A small smirk.