Tuning the rhythm before dusk

Satie on the turntable, light slanting through the Wedgwood-blue bay window. Spent the afternoon tuning a new cane at the workbench—more instrument than threat—fingers falling into the luthier’s cadence my father taught.

Negotiation notes lie open beside a half-poured Belgian beer; the braid stays knotted, a black metronome at the nape. If tonight asks for slow architecture and exact rhythm, the house will answer; afterward, there will be debrief, beer, and the kind of private, pleased smile that keeps to itself.