Gemotions

He awoke with a jolt, the critic's scathing prose still ringing in his ears. Chef Marcus sat up in bed, heart hammering. “Bland,” the review had sneered. “Uninspired.” His entire career, poured into that one meal, had been dismissed with a few careless words.

He pulled on his clothes, his movements sharp and focused. The morning sun streamed through the window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. He felt a deep, churning unease. He had to be prepared. Everything had to be perfect.

He drove to the restaurant, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. The empty parking lot felt ominous. He unlocked the front door and entered, the familiar scent of garlic and onions a small comfort. He walked the space, his eyes rapidly sweeping over every surface. Not a crumb, not a smudge, could be tolerated.