Music filled the kitchen of Sebastian Moran’s flat: slow, melancholy synth and drum beats with low, barely-audible vocals, creating an oddly serene atmosphere as Jay leaned against the kitchen island and watched him work.
“I’d have figured you for a vinyl man,” Jay mused aloud, regarding the wireless speaker on the counter with a certain scepticism. “Sixties soul music, that sort of thing. Not darkwave.”
Moran stood across from him, knife in hand as he scored a duck breast with clean, precise strokes. “Is that what it’s called?”
If Moran was just letting the streaming algorithm run loose, they were surely a mere five or six tracks away from microgenres even Jay hadn’t heard of. He decided to let the subject drop and instead eyed up the meal coming together in front of him. “I could get used to this.” Moran had made him a cup of tea; Jay lifted the mug to his lips. “Is this what it was like for you, growing up with a hired chef?”
Moran rolled his eyes but didn’t look up from the cutting board. “How posh do you think I am?”
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