Cotton cloth scratches against itself as long fingers push up shirtsleeves. Mark Darcy then fingers his tie's knot, pulling it gently loose. Footfall patters against Moroccan carpet when he carries himself through the flat and to the extensive shelf of vinyl records. Mark puts on Dean Martin, lights a candle, and, now content, all-but skips back to the kitchen.

Olive oil glugs into the pan. Garlic hits the heat and blooms instantly.

He chops onions slowly, the knife tapping a steady rhythm against the board. Warm brown eyes water and threaten to spill. He can't help but laugh to himself.

As the sauce began to simmer, Mark pours himself a modest glass of red wine. He leaned against the counter, listening as the vinyl crackled softly between songs, that warm imperfection he loved so much.

The front door creaks open. Mark, without looking up, smiles.

"In here," he calls.