Work Text:
1960s
The clack-clack of Una’s heels echoes in the empty hallway, papers thumbtacked to bulletin boards rustling as she rushes by, light bulbs overhead burning delicate filaments long after they’re usually turned off for the night. Her purse is tucked to her side, and her skirt brushes her knees as she pivots, her hip jutting to meet the heavy wood of the door to the teachers’ lounge.
The door swings open.
Curls of days-old newspapers. Overflowing ashtrays. And the lone couch that, when sat on, wheezes a post-smoky mix of Joseph’s Pall Malls, Erica’s Lucky Strikes, and La’an’s Kents. On a small table next to the couch is what Una came for — the squat, black phone.
She lifts the receiver, smooth and cool in her hand, phone cord rising toward her, each number a quick swirl of her finger followed by clicks as the circular dial turns to reset.
In her ear, there’s a tinny ring.
Another.
Then, through the phone line, there’s the scratchy sound of another receiver lifting from another phone cradle, and a voice: “Una.”
Chris.
The corners of her lips tug upward. “How did you know it was me?”
“I know your ring.” He’s joking. All phone rings sound the same. “How’s my number one gal?”
Her smile widens. “Finally done. I know it’s when I said I expected to be ready to head home. I just …” She flushes, cheeks warming because it sounds almost stupid to say out loud. “I just wanted to hear your voice.”
He chuckles, understanding. This has happened before. “Well, it’s a good reminder for me to stop trying to find more work to do and head home, too. Meet you there?”
Una’s ear is already getting hot, so she pulls the phone receiver away …
1970s
… and switches sides, the back of the phone receiver nestled on her other shoulder as she swivels in her chair to survey the empty office. Buzz from the fluorescent lights isn’t usually audible, but the rows upon rows of electric typewriters are quiet, hers the only one still humming.
Una flicks the power toggle, hard plastic under the pad of her index finger, and her typewriter joins the others in silence.
“Yes, unless you want me to come get you.” She opens a desk drawer, pulls out the folded rectangle that is the dust cover for her typewriter. Her fingertips pinch the edges to billow the crinkly vinyl in the air, the dust cover unfurling to fit over the machine. “Another girl in the secretarial pool heard on the radio that there’s a flood on some tracks, but she didn’t know which lines. Do you know if your usual train is running?”
“I’m looking out the window,” through the phone, there’s a squeak from Chris’ chair, “and I see people at the station. Not too many, so there probably aren’t delays or cancellations on the line. If I close up now, I can probably catch the next one.”
“Good.” Una smooths the dust cover, her fingers trailing along the typewriter’s flat paper glide and down the slope of the keyboard, her touch probably softer than needed, but Chris in her ear warms her belly. “I’ll see you soon.”
“Sounds good.” There’s another chair-squeak as Chris probably stands. “Oh, and Una …”
1980s
“… I had a sandwich at my desk for dinner. Spock insisted that he, Nyota, and I eat at a reasonable time. Something about the rationality of nourishment as it pertains to productivity. But are you hungry?”
“No.” Una steps toward the office’s glass door, her pumps sinking into the carpet, purse hanging from her shoulder, cordless phone crackle in her ear interrupted by low power beeps — but she only needs another minute or two, then she’ll return the phone to its cradle so the battery can recharge. “Joseph is back on the Cottage Cheese Diet and said he won’t be tempted for extra calories if he brings enough for everyone. Between his health food kick and Erica’s Jazzercise, I think La’an is going crazy. But if she can channel that energy into sales, it’s good for business.”
Una turns, the oversized posters on the walls displaying images she could see with her eyes closed — Big Ben in London, the Eiffel Tower in Paris, the Grand Canal in Venice. Closer to the desks are rows upon rows of squat cubbyholes that hold stacks of maps, paper Una can unfold until it nearly covers the top of her desk as she points would-be vacationers to far-off places, helps them navigate through stamped arrows and flicks of her pen, always reminding every customer of the travel agency to remember to look up, up, up to admire ornate ceilings, wispy clouds, starry skies.
“Well, I’ll probably get home first, so I’ll open a Cabernet Sauvignon?” Food or wine, the smile in Chris’ voice is unmistakable. “Unless you’d rather go straight to bed?”
She pretends to ponder this with a hum, and Una’s chest rises as she takes in air to answer his question.
But the cordless phone beeps to signal low power one last time and goes dead.
1990s
The office tower door swings shut behind Una, humidity closing in like a film on her skin, her hair, and she’s running, thick-heeled shoes kicking up puddle-splashes from the rain — thank goodness Chris’ train isn’t affected — the bottoms of her jeans getting damp but she doesn’t care, she’s almost to the car, key out and ready.
Car phone, she needs to get to the car phone. She needs to start the engine so the car phone will power up, then she needs to push the buttons to connect her to Chris again, to tell him she’s sorry their call got cut off, to approve his wine choice, to commiserate about how her job at the software company often paradoxically means technologies that should work, like office phones, too often don’t.
Una’s palm flattens on the raindrop-dotted car door, damp, cold, her other hand turning the key, a quick twist, and she yanks open the door, tosses her purse-backpack into the passenger seat as she sits, and she turns the key again, this time in the ignition, and the engine roars to life, lighting up numbers on the car phone.
Her fingertip presses the small, rubbery buttons in sequence, Chris’ phone number memorized — of course — and Una lifts the flat, plastic phone receiver to her ear as she shifts the car into reverse, backing out of her parking space, listening through phone-crackle to the ring … ring … ring …
2000s
… and he picks up, a cellphone-to-cellphone connection that’s a ridiculous expense, really, to pay per minute to talk to someone she’ll see soon.
“Hey,” he’s on the move, faster breaths and wooshes of air rushing into his phone, “I’m headed for the train station. Everything okay?”
“Dropped call.” Una shifts the car into drive, flipped-open phone in her hand, and she speaks loudly so the speakerphone mode will pick up what she says. “You didn’t worry, did you?”
Through the wind-muffle, Chris’ voice lowers, an entwinement of both seriousness and teasing. “I figured if you didn’t get home a few minutes after I do that I would worry then.”
“Your plan was to get through the commute, then take a scheduled, potential emotional breakdown?” Her turn signal tick-tacks, tick-tacks, tick-tacks as Una waits to merge into traffic, the headlights of cars rushing by like a perpendicular rushing river of white.
“Yeah.”
She has the sudden urge to hold him in her arms, to keep safe the inhalations and exhalations of this man who feels so deeply. Are his moods why her work is so important to her? Aerospace engineering lifts her thoughts to the skies while her mind stays grounded in physical realities, a dual existence of technology and nature, a dichotomy not analogous to his dual existence of silly and somber but something akin to it, something close.
“You know,” there’s a break in traffic, and a tap of her foot and turn of the steering wheel bring her into the rush of cars — nearer to him, she’s that much nearer to him, “I didn’t answer your question about wine. I think ...”
2010s
Wine before bed, yes?
Hang on. I’m just stepping onto the train.
Hanging on.
Singing along.
Playlist is 🔥
Yes to wine, but please stop texting and driving.
Voice dictation and red lights.
Multitasking!
Women in STEM. 💪
Man in fear that you’re not watching the road.
😜
It’s fine. Highway driving is done.
Current status: traffic light is very red.
Green!
Red.
Green!
Train is pulling in. I need to get to my car. See you soon.
😘😘😘
2020s
The commuter train station shines in the darkness, a rectangle of illumination haloed by mist after the rain. Lights dotting the parking lot send a glow down onto mostly wet pavement, puddly reflections of LED brightness, only a few rain-splattered cars left to glitter in their repose.
Chris’ usual spot is empty.
Una is nearly home.
Houses hammock both sides of the road, some darkened, others with window-lit silhouettes of people eating a late dinner, watching television, reading bedtime stories. Maybe they use smart devices she helps design. Maybe they don’t. It’s scary, sometimes, how fast technology advances. Dreams become prototypes become a smartwatch that can remind people when to stand or give analytics on the quality of their sleep.
Though credit does go to Joseph for most of the wellness applications.
Enough thinking about work.
Una taps the brakes and turns the steering wheel, white light from the headlights dancing across wet grass and up the driveway, catching the horseshoe above their garage door, the horseshoe that points upward for good luck, the horseshoe Chris and his dad debated for an hour as Chris’ dad marshaled arguments both scientific and religious to try to discourage even this small action his son wanted to take. But Chris did what he always does — he listened to the person in front of him as well as his own heart. Then he nailed that horseshoe into the siding.
It’s a beautiful horseshoe.
The door below the horseshoe rises and the car enters the box of light that is the garage, settles into its spot next to Chris’ car, a shift into park and a push of Una’s thumb turning off the engine.
Her shoulders sag in relief.
Just for a moment.
Then her fingertips find the cool glass of her phone — she can leave everything else in the car — and she’s in motion, out of the car, phone sliding into a pocket of her long cardigan, garage door closing, phone thumping against her leggings-clad thigh as she hurries, kitchen door already unlocked, and she twists the doorknob, pulls, door arcing open to reveal familiar cabinets, familiar drawers, and a very familiar backside.
She’s home.
She’s finally home.
Chris turns from the kitchen counter, hand outstretching with a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon as Una gets closer, purplish-red liquid dancing above the glass’ thin stem, wine bottle and his own wine-filled glass on the gleaming countertop, his lips curling in a Chris-smile that fills her chest, fills her chest, fills her chest.
“Welcome home.” His smile widens, soft skin around his eyes crinkling. “I started to pour when I heard the garage door go up.”
The wineglass is warm from his touch, and she’ll drink, she will, but first she lets her hips rest on his, lets her belly rest on his, lets her chest rest with the rises and falls of his — enfolded, his arms are around her and she’s enfolded, enfolded in love — and she holds onto him, sags into the curves and planes of him, her wineglass dangling from her fingers.
His gentle sigh of contentment resonates, flows into her, lifts her chin so her lips meet his and he’s already had wine, soft-sweet lips even sweeter.
“So,” he murmurs, his hands sliding down to her rear end, comfortable, easy, his breath a tingle on her lips, “you doing anything later?”
A chuckle bubbles up from deep in her belly and she raises her glass to her lips, lets a sip of wine tickle her tongue. “I have some ideas. After all, when you really think about it, the night is young.”