You refuse to call Leslie, and it starts to become a thing; thinking about not-calling her.
Buenos Aires is amazing, and for the first time in months, you actually want to touch a piano, and you can sit there for hours and when you look up, you realize that the sun is going down and your throat is rough. You make notes on a scratch pad, like a real musician (funny, how you still don't think of yourself as one) and brush your long fingers over the piano keys.
One more day, you think, even though you know you are only just beginning.
You dial her up in your sleep, tangle yourself in borrowed blankets, insinuate your fingers with hers. Her voice sounds different, and you think it might be the distance, the line. You wake up and your face is wet with saline.
The notes come out faster when you picture her face.