The knife fell with a satisfying thunk onto the chopping board, cleaving the meat cleanly into two. It rose again and fell again, the butcher feeling the tendons and muscles and bone snap and peel with each stroke. Here was a man who enjoyed his work.
He gripped the knife even tighter and stopped; a person was in the doorway to his small shop (perhaps best called a 'shoppe'). "Can I help you?" asked the knife-man.
I hope so, replied the customer. I want some meat.
"You've come to the right place then. Would you like some pork?" He motioned to the freshly cut meat on the slab.
Do you have any sausages? I like sausages.
"Not yet. I'll have to make some. Sure you don't want any pork?"
The head of the customer shook negative. I like sausages, not pork.
"I'm sorry, then," he said to the back of the customer, who left. A frown crossed his face. He hefted his blade, enjoying the weight.
"I'll show you sausages."