Gemotions

The newspaper lay crumpled on the pavement outside of Marco’s Italian restaurant. He kicked it aside, ignoring the sting in his toe. The critic's words, a savage pronouncement of culinary failure, echoed in his mind. He would not surrender. His jaw clenched, and he pushed open the door to his restaurant, the bell above the door chiming its familiar greeting. He grabbed the bread basket and brought it to a table, the warmth of the bread a tiny spark of comfort in the cold reality of the review.