Thursday evening.

The golden Buddha is lit by a single candle. We chant his name, Amitabha, over four notes. There are two of us. Her voice is smoother, and higher than mine. In front of the Buddha are three blue coffee cups with gold rims, from a market in France. They are each full of water: this morning's offering. The empty white jug, heart shaped, next to them, was the first thing we bought together.