Gemotions

The clatter of pots and pans usually soothed Jean-Pierre. Today, the noise grated on his nerves. He kept scrubbing, scrubbing, scrubbing the same pan, a futile attempt to scrub away the sting of the review. His chest felt constricted.

He barked orders to his kitchen staff, not out of malice, but a desperate attempt to maintain control. Each dish that left the kitchen felt like a gamble, a test of his worth. He felt the sweat beading on his forehead, a cold dampness that had nothing to do with the heat of the stoves.

He saw the waiter bring out a plate. He was sure it was going to be an issue. He bit his lip. The waiter returned, his face a mask of polite neutrality. Jean-Pierre held his breath as the waiter walked past him. He couldn’t handle another problem. He turned back to the pans, the metal reflecting the tormented portrait of a chef.