he woke up when he reached across the bed and didn't find her waist.
she did not always think of leaving a note or kissing his brow before she left. maybe a teacup in the sink and a book on the floor, beside the chair. the newspaper, read and folded back in place. stayed till to noises of vehicles on the street below his apartment broke the morning in, not long enough till he woke up.
on other mornings, she was the fingertips on his back and the mellow noise of the shower running in the background as he walked around the apartment, sipping tea. she was the gentle pressure of her feet resting near his thigh on the couch, as they watched tv. she was a wisp of lemongrass perfume. she debated and paced and laughed until the noises on the street did not matter to him anymore, because she could distract his senses into forgetting everything outside the four walls that kept them together.
he wondered if the Ganga was, after all, a confused woman who could not decide if the sheer force of youthfulness suited her or if she wanted to flow gracefully towards a destiny.