The silence hangs like the first fog of autumn; denser than mist, more dangerous. Blinding even, creating its own shadow. A shadow falls across the newspaper that rustles at the table, struggling to break through the opaque shroud of silence. The silence in the kitchen breaks as an oven dish crashes on top of the cooker whatever is inside now basted by metal on metal.
The newspaper, disturbed by the crashing metal, now lies flat and silent. Its reader casts a last worn glance at the front page, frowns, gasps and smiles. The smiling reader gets up, puts on his coat to protect him from the cold but not the silence. The door opens, then closes with a thud.
The closing door is not heard in the kitchen, where knives are sharpened whilst thinking about the reader, with regret at how things have become. The reader’s keys click and turn in the door which swings open, hinges crying out for oil. His coat is off but his smile isn’t.
The smile continues as a few words are muttered in the kitchen, above the sound of the extraction fan. The knives fall silent once again.
“Happy anniversary my darling.”
The cloak of fog disappears as a cork pops in the kitchen.