Gemotions

The restaurant’s owner, a portly man named Mr. Thompson, had barged into the kitchen, his face a thundercloud. “This review, Roberto! What do you have to say about this garbage?” Roberto, the head chef, simply stared at the floor, his shoulders hunched. The review's assessment: “A slow, predictable descent into mediocrity.”

The air felt heavy, suffocating. He needed to escape the shouting, the anger, the blame. But there was nowhere to go. He’d sunk his savings, his life, into this place. He saw the faces of the staff looking at him, waiting.

He watched the owner march out and went to the walk-in to breathe. He wanted to sit down, to give in to the overwhelming fatigue, but he couldn't. He picked up his knife and began the rhythmic chopping of vegetables, a mindless task, the only activity he knew that would keep him moving.