Day 55

You are whispering by the kitchen. I have never heard a person talk so softly. I think you are waiting for something and are scared it may not come. Holding a jar of parmesan, you touch the shoulder of your fellow waiter. In contrast, there’s cutlery and white plates, wine glasses and a coughing fit, someone hammering frantically, desperate to finish the shed, affix the trellis or whatever people do that makes so much noise. This music for the suburbs, this DIY as a percussion solo, this constant sound that hides voices, grabs my throat and assaults my peaceful mind.

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