Love Like Clockwork

For long hours, I sat by the open window, with the open book on my lap, pretending to read and watching her play. She had the piano set up at the far end of the room, by the door, her metal fingers skittering backward and forward across the black and white keys, the hydraulics in her legs pumping the pedals, and bracing her against the crescendos of the first and third movements.

Of course, the music meant nothing to her — being deaf, she couldn't hear it. It was a gift, an offering… a mathematical exercise designed to please me.

Eventually, when she wound down, I closed the book. I got up and walked to the door, my own joints and gears hissing and clanking as I moved.

As I passed, I touched her copper hair.

"Thank you, my love," I said.

Find more by Gareth L. Powell in the Author Index.

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