Gemotions

The review, a digital dagger, lay open on the countertop, reflecting the harsh fluorescent light. Chef Marco slumped onto a stool, the air escaping his lungs in a slow, defeated sigh. He massaged his temples, a dull ache throbbing behind his eyes, a familiar companion these days. His shoulders felt heavy, pressing down on him, as though they were made of lead. He barely registered the clatter of the late-night cleanup, the tired voices of his staff fading into a dull hum in the background.

He reread the words, each one a tiny pinprick against his already frayed nerves. "Over-seasoned," the critic had written. "Lacking in imagination." Years of ambition, of sweat and sacrifice, reduced to a few cruel sentences. He stared at his hands, hands that had kneaded dough, sliced vegetables, and coaxed flavors from raw ingredients. They felt alien, unfamiliar, as if they belonged to someone else.

The restaurant, his heart's creation, felt distant, like a battlefield he was no longer equipped to fight on. He closed his eyes, the image of the critic's disdainful face searing itself onto the inside of his eyelids.