If I were a musician, I could write the most delightful melody of all; however, I'm a writer. So I have to sit at a table by the window, notes ready, but I don't write yet. I listen. Because this café, like almost all of them, has its own music.
I'm not talking about the song playing on the speakers. That's separate. I'm talking about the actual sounds. The coffee machine spits steam with a steady rhythm. It's a deep sound, like a repetitive drum. Then there's the grinder. When someone orders freshly ground coffee, the grinder roars for a few seconds. It's a short but intense sound. I like that combination: the long steam and the short grind.
Cutlery clatters against cups. Some stir their sugar violently. Others do it slowly. The metal against the ceramic makes a sharp clinking sound. Trays land on the bar with a dull thud. Plates pile up. Empty cups are gathered on a cart.
And then there's the murmur of people. I don't understand the conversations. I only hear the tone. A group laughs. Someone talks quietly on their phone. Another person asks for a glass of water. All these voices blend into a continuous murmur.
When I add it all up, I have an orchestra. The machine is the wind section, the cutlery and cups are the percussion; the voices are the strings, and the windmill is that solo that pops up every now and then.
This soundtrack helps me write. It's not silence, but it's not annoying noise either. It's a living, organic background. It reminds me that I'm not alone, even when I'm alone. That there's a world that keeps its rhythm around me.
When I leave the coffee shop, I miss that music. Because at home there's only the silence of my desk. And sometimes silence weighs more than any sound.
