Evening wine and a slow bow

I've been listening to Shostakovich as dusk flattens the Mala Strana roofs, pouring a small measure of Tokaji into a thin glass. The 1873 Vuillaume rests on its chair like a third self; its varnish catches the candle and stitches the attic to all those years.

A Sobranie after dinner and the cats have already commandeered the music stand—this night prefers restraint. If a man twice my age knows how to sit without filling the air, with patient hands and a quiet conversation in his eyes, he'll find the company worth the wait.