"No, dear boy, it's the chassé, three times in a row, not a coupé. It's not a bourée, for goodness' sake."
"I lost count," said Islington coolly. It did not say that Aziraphale's humming only vaguely resembled heavenly harmonies; they both knew.
"It's really all right. Let's try it again, shall we?"
"Have you taught me all of the steps?"
"All but the last bit."
"Oh?"
"I believe we'll leave that off."
Islington shook its head. "If you say so."
At the end, Aziraphale forgot himself and kissed Islington. It tasted of sadness and dry rot. He turned away, embarrassed.
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