Gemotions

The phone vibrated on the stainless steel counter, jolting Elias from his obsessive polishing of a sauté pan. He knew, before he even glanced at the screen, who it was. The restaurant’s publicist. His heart hammered against his ribs. He swiped to answer.

“Elias, are you… are you okay?” Her voice sounded tight, even through the speaker. He mumbled a weak affirmative.

He leaned against the counter, suddenly unable to stand upright. The metallic scent of the kitchen, usually so comforting, now threatened to overwhelm him. He pictured the critic's words – the scathing takedown of his signature dish, the accusations of pretension and, worse, a lack of passion. He felt a blush creep up his neck.

The publicist's voice drifted through the receiver again, and the call ended shortly after. Elias stared at the gleaming pan, its surface reflecting his own defeated face. He could feel tears prickling at his eyes. His hands began to tremble.