Downstairs, I could hear the return of a long-lost sound: Amy
making breakfast. Banging wooden cupboards (rump-thump!), rattling containers
of tin and glass (ding-ring!), shuffling and sorting a collection of metal pots
and iron pans (ruzz-shuzz!). A culinary orchestra tuning up, clattering
vigorously toward the finale, a cake pan drumrolling along the floor, hitting
the wall with a cymballic crash. Something impressive was being created,
probably a crepe, because crepes are special, and today Amy would want to cook
something special.
It was our five-year anniversary.
From Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn
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