A hint of sarcastic laughter sneaks through your voice as you mock our Saturday night of quiet conversation over brimming cups of tea. The secondhand table wobbles a little, and the spots that last year’s tenants left on the carpet match the breakfast still stuck to the tablecloth (at least there’s now a tablecloth). The dishwasher hums between discussions of the fall of man and the filioque, a feather of steam curling up around your face, like sweet sticky incense prayed up to heaven on the tail of a tenor’s vibrato.