Gemotions

The review sat on the counter, a crumpled testament to her failure. Chef Eloise had poured her heart into the new tasting menu, months of research, sourcing, and endless experimentation culminating in this, a scathing takedown in the city’s leading newspaper. She paced the length of her small apartment, the hardwood floors creaking beneath her. A cold sweat prickled her skin, and she pulled at the collar of her chef’s coat, wishing she could shed the weight of the words. She’d always relied on her passion for food as a shield, but the critic’s assessment had sliced through it, leaving her vulnerable and exposed.

Her phone buzzed with notifications. Texts from her sous chefs, offering condolences. She ignored them, unable to face the disappointment in their voices. Her stomach churned, and she thought briefly of the half-eaten loaf of sourdough on the kitchen counter. Even the thought of food made her recoil.

She flicked the kettle on and watched the water come to a boil. She sat alone in the kitchen, staring at the wall. The steam from her mug formed condensation on her glasses.