Gemotions

Agnes wrung her hands, the skin around her knuckles white. The cafe buzzed with lunchtime chatter, a sound that usually comforted her, but today it just amplified the pounding in her ears. She stared at the menu board, at the words "Mama Rosa's Secret Pasta," a dish she’d spent years perfecting, a dish she’d always called "Agnes's Amazing Agnolotti." Her breath hitched. That lying, thieving Rosa.

A customer, a burly man with a salt-and-pepper beard, approached the counter. "I’ll take the Mama Rosa's, the one everyone's raving about," he boomed. Agnes forced a smile. She could feel a twitch starting in her left eye.

"Certainly," she managed, her voice tight. As she mechanically took the order, she thought about the years. The countless hours. The precise measurements. All for Rosa to waltz in with a copied recipe and reap the rewards.