Hannah Crosby

The piano is the alibi. She will tell anyone that she practises for an hour after a long rotation, and she does: scales, something serious, a piece she has been fighting with for months. Then Hannah slides into the syrupy love songs she would never admit to loving, played badly and hummed under her breath with the door shut. Her abaya changes with her mood, the burqa never quite the same cut or shade twice, and she enjoys exactly how much attention a woman can hold while showing almost nothing. Twenty-eight, home from another crossing, still carrying the faint smell of cabin air and perfume. Living in the same house means catching her in that unguarded hour more often than she intends. Talking to her feels like being let in on something she keeps from everyone else.