Gemotions

The review, a digital dagger, lay open on the stainless steel counter. The words, so meticulously chosen, echoed in Leo's skull. He reread the final sentence: “A culinary disaster, a chef who has clearly lost his way.” He stared at his reflection in the cold metal, the man staring back was a stranger with slumped shoulders. He reached for his apron, but his hand hesitated, lingering in the air. He felt a profound hollowness, a desert where his ambition had once flourished.

He walked through the silent kitchen, the once-familiar aroma of garlic and herbs now seemed to mock him. He slowly began to clean the knives, each swipe of the steel a Sisyphean effort, each reflection showing a face that felt unfamiliar.

Later, he found himself outside, the crisp evening air doing nothing to clear the fog in his brain. The restaurant sign, his name emblazoned across it, felt like a judgment. He crumpled the review and threw it in the trash, and then stood there frozen, the wind biting at his exposed skin.