Gemotions

Rain lashed against the windows of the restaurant, mirroring the tempest inside Amelia. The critic’s words, venomous and precise, echoed in her mind. “Amateurish," "uninspired," "a waste of prime ingredients.” She slumped onto a stool at the bar, the once inviting space now feeling cold and alien.

She poked at the untouched plate of scallops, the delicate sear now appearing dull and unappetizing. Her fingers traced the rim of the glass, the coldness of the gin and tonic doing nothing to quell the internal heat. Every muscle in her body felt knotted, tense.

The bartender, noticing her demeanor, simply slid a whiskey over to her. No words were needed. Amelia took a long swallow, the liquor burning a path down her throat.