(MKG)–6799 - The Chicken Kitchen
In the whole town, there is no place like this tonight. The concert of the sounds has perfect timing — nowhere else could the voice of the phone be in better company.
There is a cheerful ring to it, and it echoes the bell; every time a new order gets through, it is silvery laughter. It accompanies most of the evening, with the swift clicking of the rollerblades.
It gets acute, spiky, later on in the evening. Nobody notices, in the merry chatter from the tables; it echoes what none of them will see, repeating clinking of wheels, of shattered glass.
It gets heavier when they are tired, when they feel the desire to be lonely. Their full bellies make their hearing numb; but it is clear, in the tone, the booming thud of a huge sign that falls.
It rings in different ways, one for each of them. It has the soft sound of drinks poured in the glass, of good smell and loud singing; it speaks, with the calculated rhythm of clicking heels, in a place where many knots have to be loosened and formed.
Whatever tune may come, the phone doesn't stop ringing. It is a busy night, full of layers and empty plates.