The piano in the shopping building's passage had one key that returned more slowly than the others. Vesna discovered it immediately because that note began the only melody she still remembered from music school. She sat merely to check whether her fingers had retained anything after thirty years. After several bars she stopped. Behind her a man's voice hummed the continuation, rather inaccurately but familiarly enough to make her turn.
The man carried a canvas bag full of vegetables and was apologizing before doing anything wrong. He said he had played that piece too, long ago and not particularly well. His name was Harun. Vesna offered the other end of the bench. He tried repeating the part he remembered and made a mistake precisely where he had just sounded confident. Their first shared sound ended in laughter attracting more looks than the music.
Harun had to catch a bus. Vesna stood, thinking it would remain a small incident to tell a friend that evening. Then he said he usually passed through on Tuesdays. He did not ask whether she would come, but waited for an answer as though he had. She said she might check whether she remembered a few more bars. She had no piano at home. Until the following Tuesday her fingers invented a path across her table that might have been entirely wrong.
They met without vegetables or any need to pretend coincidence. Harun brought printed sheet music. Vesna laughed because she had brought some too, from another edition with different page layouts. They spent most of the time seeking the same place. A girl stopped with her father and asked whether they could play something cheerful. Vesna said they were trying. The girl nodded seriously, as though hearing sufficient reason to keep waiting.
Over the following weeks the melody assembled more slowly than their conversations. They knew where each worked, what they cooked alone, and why Harun disliked Sunday evenings. Vesna noticed choosing earrings on Tuesdays, although she usually forgot them. One day the piano was covered while the passage was cleaned. Harun stood beside it, unnecessarily worried. She asked whether he wanted a walk. He looked so pleased that she realized both had been waiting some time for that simple suggestion.
They never played the piece perfectly, even later. Sometimes they stopped at the piano; sometimes they continued to dinner, leaving the bench for somebody else. When Harun first kissed her, they were not discussing music. Vesna was telling a story about a neighbor's escaped laundry and forgot to finish the sentence. She did not regret it. Some things could remain unfinished without anything important being missing.