A precious moment, one unlike most, and yet so simple, that it only requires a couple of lines to sketch out. The grey stone crumbling bridge over an empty moat. An opening in the Tuscan cypress trees allows the golden hour to settle softly on the dried moss of the stout castle tower, the sun pointing with her rays to where we, too, should take rest. Indi sits behind me, legs straddling my back, with her arms wrapped around my shoulders and her head resting against the back of mine, where I feel the tickle of her dark curls by my ears. The last hour of light, and I read her aloud from the majestically translated novel Zorba the Greek. 

I explain the more difficult words as I go, both of us falling in love with Zorba immediately. I play with my voice to bring the different characters to life, booming out into the valley anytime the lusty Zorba jokes about life, laughing with a deep rumble before he jumps up to dance on the Cretan beaches. With higher pitch and strong nasal accent I play the role of the old French Madame, or adapt to the croaked mumblings of the village elders, carefully watching my breath as the sentences follow one another. 

And as I learn to act and juggle my intonation while reading the book, the sun slowly settles behind the cypress trees and the story unfolds before our eyes. Indi nods, mumbles, and puffs in laughter, astonishment, confusion, amusement, and surprise at the strange voices I create and the weird things they often tend to say.

Three days ago, she left for India, where she will be away for almost six weeks. So yesterday morning I sat down by my desk, having finished my breakfast and brushed my teeth, ready to hurry off to class in half an hour. I decided to use my time carefully, setting up my phone to start recording, and for those thirty minutes, as I intoned the Greek voices and let them converse with one another through my being, I felt her sitting next to me. I forgot about the dragging loneliness so markedly prominent through the sudden lack of what is always nearest, and instead could hear her laughter at Zorba’s mischievous escapades, imagining what she’d say and think at each paragraph I read.