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May. 21st, 2020 06:00 pmthe market is noisy.
the market is always noisy, filled with people of all shapes and sizes. children and parents. grizzled old men and weary young wives making their rounds, loud haggling between buyers and sellers, groups of boys telling lewd jokes and laughing uproariously every few minutes. the distant sound of a baby crying, the soft snorting of resting horses. the market always operates at an undulating roar.
he listens and listens and listens to their useless chatter, replies to their conversations, answers their questions. imagines their answers. oh, thanks laurent! i didn’t know that. you’re always full of information, laurent. are you working on a new project? why don’t you come with us to the pub tonight! it’ll be fun, laurent. you do know what fun is, don’t you?
he speaks all of ten words during his visit. “the usual, please.” the merchants grunt and hand their goods over, pre-made packages set aside for a faithful customer. the clinking of coins mark the end of the exchange. laurent bids his thanks, hefting the bags over his shoulder, draping them across his chest, clutching tightly to the fabric, and walks on.
-
he speaks less and less, until he finds himself not speaking at all. until he finds himself speaking all the time, inside the apartment he had once called quaint, answering the walls that screamed silence at him. every day. every day.
he talks himself hoarse. the empty air, he finds, is a very good listener.
-
the market is noisy. he makes his way quickly to his regular stalls, purse at the ready. an inclination of the head, money changing hands, the acquisition of his usual necessities. he walks.
it isn’t until he gets home that he realizes he’d forgotten to listen.
-
his sighs fill the room. they feel like company, if only for a little while.
-
laurent can only sigh so much.
the market is always noisy, filled with people of all shapes and sizes. children and parents. grizzled old men and weary young wives making their rounds, loud haggling between buyers and sellers, groups of boys telling lewd jokes and laughing uproariously every few minutes. the distant sound of a baby crying, the soft snorting of resting horses. the market always operates at an undulating roar.
he listens and listens and listens to their useless chatter, replies to their conversations, answers their questions. imagines their answers. oh, thanks laurent! i didn’t know that. you’re always full of information, laurent. are you working on a new project? why don’t you come with us to the pub tonight! it’ll be fun, laurent. you do know what fun is, don’t you?
he speaks all of ten words during his visit. “the usual, please.” the merchants grunt and hand their goods over, pre-made packages set aside for a faithful customer. the clinking of coins mark the end of the exchange. laurent bids his thanks, hefting the bags over his shoulder, draping them across his chest, clutching tightly to the fabric, and walks on.
-
he speaks less and less, until he finds himself not speaking at all. until he finds himself speaking all the time, inside the apartment he had once called quaint, answering the walls that screamed silence at him. every day. every day.
he talks himself hoarse. the empty air, he finds, is a very good listener.
-
the market is noisy. he makes his way quickly to his regular stalls, purse at the ready. an inclination of the head, money changing hands, the acquisition of his usual necessities. he walks.
it isn’t until he gets home that he realizes he’d forgotten to listen.
-
his sighs fill the room. they feel like company, if only for a little while.
-
laurent can only sigh so much.
