Gemotions

The salt air practically crackled around Chef Antoine as he bounded into the kitchen. Sunlight streamed through the windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air, mimicking the energy coursing through him. He slapped a hand on the stainless steel counter, the metal cool beneath his touch. “Alright, team! Let’s make magic happen!” he boomed, already grabbing a basket of plump, ruby-red tomatoes. Today was going to be a masterpiece.

He hummed a jaunty tune as he sliced, diced, and whisked. The rhythmic chop of his knife against the wooden board was a steady counterpoint to the bubbling pots on the stove. His skin flushed with heat and exertion, beads of sweat tracing pathways down his temples. This was the moment; the zenith. He knew it in his core.

Then, the review arrived. The words were a sharp, stinging slap. Antoine stared at them, the colors in the kitchen suddenly dulled. The tomatoes seemed less bright. His hands, moments before a blur of motion, felt leaden and heavy. The air felt thick, difficult to breathe.