Gemotions

Chef Marco closed the restaurant down early. The review, with its damning pronouncements about his use of spices, had destroyed his confidence. He could barely bring himself to look at the food. He was finding himself restless.

He sat on a stool in the darkened kitchen, the silence amplified. The sharp scent of cumin, usually comforting, now seemed cloying. He pictured the critic's face, the condescending smirk.

Marco couldn't meet his own gaze in the reflective surface of the knife. He felt… hollow. He started to unbutton his chef jacket, as if the garment was suddenly too tight.