Gemotions

The newspaper lay crumpled on the floor of Chef Kenji's immaculate kitchen. He’d carefully folded it that morning, anticipating the review, and now it was a discarded insult. The critic had described his minimalist presentation as "cold and detached," a stab that hit directly at his soul.

He felt the familiar thrum of anxiety begin in his chest. He reached for a calming chamomile tea, needing the ritual. The restaurant was quiet, just the hum of the refrigerator.

He found himself pacing, the polished floor reflecting his troubled expression. The phone rang, his mother. He picked up the receiver and asked, “How are you?” He listened to her voice, the warmth radiating from her simple words. "I'm doing fine," he replied, but the crack in his voice betrayed the truth.