Chesh-Syn

The last beams of sunlight flitted in through the windows of the kitchen, illuminating the smallest particles of dust dancing lazily to the rhythmic clacking of a knife on wood in the background. Piece by piece the onion fell into neat rings on the cutting board as Cecil cut through them in a methodical fashion. It wasn’t his favourite thing to do, and certainly not even his favourite vegetable to chop -was there even something like a favourite vegetable? Avec probably had one, he reasoned. He had strange favourite things like that. Favourite sauces, favourite meat cuts, favourite sea weeds and, a tiny voice from the depths of his head