The doorbell becomes a jangling intrusion; the plaintive voices demanding explanations, replacements, refunds – “What? Madam, it quite clearly states on the label that once used – yes, you bloody well did! I can see the teeth marks!” – cease to be amusing, or merely tedious, and grate against his ears, and by lunch time the clatter of coins and the incredibly annoying squeak the cash register drawer makes as he slams it, have become unendurable.
Yet all he thinks later is how quiet it’s been without Anya. And his headache’s caused, not by the noise, but the silence of that missing voice.
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