Gemotions

The critic’s words were a cold wind, whipping through the restaurant's usually bustling dining room. Sunlight streamed through the windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air, a constant reminder of the failure. Each clatter of cutlery, each hushed conversation, felt like a judgment.

I shouldn't have served that dish, I know it, he thought. He found himself avoiding eye contact with the few remaining customers. He retreated to the back, to the quietest corner he could find. His fingers fiddled with the buttons on his chef's coat.

He leaned against the cold brick wall of the pantry, the silence pressing down on him. His breath came in short, ragged gasps. The scent of herbs and spices, normally a comfort, now felt like a suffocating blanket. He felt trapped.