#Title

Not All Stories Have a Finale
A Sonata has three major parts: exposition, development and recapitulation.
Can a story be written in a sonata form? What if the strings are broken before reaching the last note?
Will there be a story then, a happy ending? Or, is the story doomed forever, with no chance of a finale?
Things We hide in the Middle of the Night
Lying side by side late at night, we counted cracks in the walls, some smaller, some larger, a few jagged.
“You hide things from me,” I said.
“What?” he asked in a sleepy voice.
“You are facing trouble at work?”
There was no response. Did he fall asleep? Or did he deliberately choose to stay silent? I hated his ability to fall asleep fast when I couldn’t sleep for days. I hated his choice of gifts he picked up for me randomly, without an occasion. I hated his face, taut with tension. Somedays I hated myself for carrying so much hatred.
“Did you talk to your father?” I asked, “The bank manager called again.”
“No,” a reply came this time. “I don’t want you to worry about money,”
“What do you want me to do?” I grumbled.
“You know what I want?” he came closer and whispered into my ear.
I closed my eyes, wishing it was summer and I was somewhere else.
“I want to start a family,” he mumbled, kissing my neck.
I sighed. I don’t want a baby. I don’t feel guilty for not wanting a baby. For wanting things, I am not supposed to want; and he is not supposed to know.
We made love below the gaping cracks in the walls.
LET’S IMAGINE
WE HAVE a life together, filled with a few happy lyrics and some random fights.
Let’s imagine us waking up together; the early morning light seeping through the window, caressing us with its warmth.
Let’s imagine us watching the rain, listening to George Michael songs, or walking in some half-deserted street in a late winter night.
Too much of such imaginations can be tiring. You demand truth. I find it easier, playing make-believe.
With a husband, snoring next to me, I imagine a little more every night.
THE LAST NOTE
“Shouldn’t it be called hypocrisy to live with a man you don’t love?” he asked.
“It’s called compromise,” I replied. “Arranged marriage.”
“It’s not how a marriage works,” he said.
“It works just fine.”
“Can’t you leave him?” he suddenly asked, lighting a cigarette.
I stayed silent and watched the smoke swirling in the air. Fading fast. “And do what?” I asked.
“Move in with me,” he said.
I stared at him with a thudding heart.
He waited.
Marzia Rahman is a writer and translator based in Dhaka.