So it’s after three in the morning and she’s in the bathroom taking off her makeup and your man’s at the other end of the hall on the bed in his t-shirt singing. The kids are at their grandparents and he’s full of wine and champagne and his hair stinks of smoke from the bar and he’s sort of crooning this song he always sings because it fits his mood and also it’s the only song he knows all the words to that’s not a Christmas carol.

She says something at the other end of the hall.

He stops singing. “What?” he says.

“I said you have a nice voice. Please keep singing.”

So he does.