Gemotions

I felt a chill despite the warmth of the kitchen. My hands trembled as I took the review out of the mailbox, the paper seemed to burn in my hands. The critic's verdict on my bouillabaisse – "fishy, unfocused, and forgettable" – cut me like a knife.

I found myself alone, staring at the stove. The flames seemed to dance with the words, mocking my efforts. The air felt heavy, and it became hard to concentrate on anything.

I retreated to the walk-in, the cold air doing little to soothe the storm inside me. The fear made my stomach churn and I had the sudden need to curl up in a ball.