random drabble
The sounds of the kitchen are his music. The knife sliding across the board, the sizzle in the pan, the clang of plates and bowls and silverware... this was his symphony, and he was the conductor. The songs were never the same, and that was why he still worked... the everchanging sounds and tastes and smells... *hiss* the water boils over and he adjusts without even looking, moving the pot and dropping the flame... the baton softening the volume of his players.
he'd paid for his skill. The bags under his eyes from the long nights in the restaurant, the burns on his arms, and when his hands slowed you could see scars on his fingers... he'd paid well for these songs, but the wry smile on his face as he worked told you that he'd pay the same and more. He'd keep paying until he couldn't understand the music he was making... and then he'd be finished and dead.
Until then, he'd make his food, play his songs, and hope that the audience... the customers, would have the ability to hear and see the music in their meal. If not, it is their loss, not his, for his is simply the joy in the music.