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.