Fino, vinyl and a flour-dusted passerby

I'm pouring a slightly chilled fino while Van Morrison's 'Into the Mystic' hums on the old record player. A man stumbles by with flour on his palms and the warm, honest scent of bread—two stray cats follow his shadow like they know a story worth listening to.

Prefer someone whose hands have work and patience, the sort who tastes the stew before leaning in. Kiss the back of my neck while I'm stirring; tell me what I taste like and I'll laugh from the belly. Apron's ready, the evening can take its time.