Gemotions

"Mediocre at best," the review sneered. It sat there, glaring at him from the pristine white page. He crumpled the paper, tossed it into the nearest trash receptacle, and abruptly stood. He felt a need to clean, to order. Every surface in the restaurant, every wine bottle, every piece of silverware, had to be perfect. His hands flew from one task to the next. He ordered the staff to polish the already sparkling glasses, re-arrange the flowers. The restaurant had to reflect the meticulousness he felt the review had disregarded. He had to *exert control*.