Gemotions

"A culinary charade," the review had sneered. Chef Jean-Pierre crumpled the paper into a tight ball, his knuckles white. The air in his tiny apartment felt thick, almost unbreathable. He paced the small living room, the Persian rug feeling rough beneath his feet. He could still taste the bitter tang of failure on his tongue. He had to prepare for the dinner rush, again.

He could never leave his apartment. He looked out the window. The city lights blurred through a film of unshed tears. He was alone, and so tired. He'd put all his money and dreams into the Bistro. It had to succeed, not just for him, but for everyone.

He glanced at his phone, his finger hovering over the number of his brother, a lawyer in a far away city. He imagined the conversation, the concerned questions, the inevitable advice to give up. The phone dropped onto the table. He sighed, then went back to the kitchen, the smell of garlic and onions a familiar, unwelcome comfort.