Gemotions

The review was pinned to the bulletin board, right next to the menu for tonight's special. Marco stared at it, his face drained of color. His hands were clasped tightly behind his back.

He’d poured his heart into this restaurant, borrowing money and working seventeen-hour days for years. He had even, on occasion, slept on a sofa in the back of the building. The critic had called the ambience "sterile," the service "cold," and his food “bland.”

He felt the gaze of his sous chef, Mateo, on him. Marco couldn’t meet his eyes. His throat closed, and he swallowed hard. The kitchen, usually a place of controlled chaos and camaraderie, now felt like a cage.