Gemotions

The steam from the pot on the stove seemed to claw at Agnes’s face, mirroring the way she felt. She scrubbed at a smudge on the window, the glass reflecting her increasingly frantic movements. The newspaper clipping lay on the counter: “Chef Antoine’s Divine Duck Confit – a Parisian Sensation!” Antoine. That pompous fool. Her grandmother’s recipe, stolen and repackaged. She slammed the cleaning spray down, the noise echoing in the small kitchen. Her hands trembled as she reached for a cigarette, her usual composure fractured.

The phone rang, a shrill interruption. It was Martha, her best friend, gushing about Antoine’s restaurant and the “amazing” duck confit. Agnes forced a laugh, a tight, brittle sound that didn’t reach her eyes. She wanted to scream, to rip the phone from the wall, but instead, she just mumbled something about being busy. After hanging up, she sat, staring at the ceiling, the smoke curling around her like a cage.