Gemotions

The review hit Marco like a physical blow. He'd poured his heart, his soul, into the tasting menu. Now, lines of criticism bled across the newsprint: "Lackluster… predictable… a weary echo of better days." He crumpled the paper, the sound echoing in the silent kitchen. His shoulders slumped; the weight of the critique pressed down on him. Each muscle ached; even the simple task of tossing the trash seemed monumental. He dragged himself to the walk-in, the cold air doing little to soothe the exhaustion etched onto his face. He leaned against the cool metal, the dim light offering little comfort.