Turning Bach and a glass of whisky

Bach's first cello suite on low, each phrase measured like the day's tick‑by‑tick ledger. A single malt — precisely forty‑five millilitres — waits at my elbow; no ice, no small talk.

Across the street a conductor passed, coat flaring, baton tucked like a confidant; competence announces itself without complaint. Contracts and menus both get signed with ink and appetite — tonight, negotiation will be deliberate, then chess, then dinner.