On the banks of Ganga, you came back to me.
As I looked at my own hands, moving them around out of boredom, stretching its joints, bringing them in and out of shadow, I remembered how elegantly you used to type: from a distance, without my glasses, it always seemed to me that you were on the piano, that the sonatas I would later listen to were actually then being played by you.
That night, after the party, I thought you were finally going to tell me this secret, when you leaned in, and said that you were in love with me. I’d smiled, even though I was a little disappointed.
There are nights when I dream about a pair of hands playing the piano. And all I can hear is the sound of typing.