Sipping Tokaji beside a cracked window

Tonight the 1873 Vuillaume rests on its chair while Shostakovich whispers from the old record player. A glass of Tokaji warms in my hand; the three composer‑cats have arranged themselves like soft punctuation across my lap, and the Mala Strana attic keeps its window cracked for that honest chill. Akhmatova's lines in Russian nudge me between the measures.

There is a particular pleasure in being attended to by a man twice my age who has done his own work—one who can sit without needing to fill the room. Pour the wine, offer the silence, and let the bow say what words will not.