Gemotions

The article seemed to swim before Eleanor's eyes, the ink blurring into an incomprehensible mess. She had prepared for criticism, of course, but not this. The critic had called her renowned chocolate soufflé "a dense, flavorless brick." Her fingers traced the words, as if by touch she could somehow rewrite them. Her jaw felt locked.

She backed away from the table, her legs suddenly weak. The usually warm and welcoming atmosphere of her pastry shop felt like a cold, sterile laboratory. A tightness seized her throat, making it difficult to breathe. She found herself clutching at the counter, her knuckles white.