Gemotions

The words from the critic, “an insult to gastronomy,” burned in his memory. Chef Jean-Luc was pacing his tiny apartment, unable to sit still. He had tasted the future, and it had been found wanting. He ran a hand through his already disheveled hair, the scent of lavender and regret clinging to his fingertips.

He needed to breathe. He needed to think. He needed to *act.* He marched into the kitchen, his steps deliberate and purposeful. He opened the refrigerator, inspecting each ingredient with hawk-like precision. Everything would be controlled. Everything would be fresh.

He started prepping, methodically chopping vegetables, his knife a blur of motion. The rhythmic thud of the blade against the cutting board served as a metronome, a steady heartbeat against the chaos.