Work Text:
July 1981
The knock wakes Graham up. He had been waiting for the beginning of the late shows on TV with the sound on low, but had fallen asleep on the couch well before the first skit.
He pads towards the front door in bare feet and looks through the side crystal. Karen is standing on his porch under the tiny overhead light-bulb. He hasn’t seen her for almost two years, not since that night in Chicago.
“I like your house,” she says breathlessly as she walks in, wearing a summer dress and ankle boots that clack on the wooden floors. She drops her leather jacket on a chair.
Graham closes the door behind her, too stunned by her presence to speak.
“What does it take to get a drink in this town?” Karen says, lifting an eyebrow at him in the half-light.
“Here, let’s go into the kitchen,” Graham croaks, his mouth dry, and, as she follows him towards the back of the house, he catches a whiff of her perfume, its heady notes of rose and jasmine.
The light in the kitchen is glaring and that’s when he notices that Karen’s hair is shorter than what it used to be, with a hint of auburn. She is as breathtaking as ever, probably even more.
She must have seen him stare because she lifts a strand of hair and comments, “Natural color. Strange, isn’t it?”
“Would you like a beer? I might have bourbon or whisky somewhere…” Graham fumbles, hiding his embarrassment behind the door of the fridge. “I have homemade iced tea, lemonade -” he offers.
On the tip of his tongue are the questions he won’t speak out loud. What are you doing here? How are you? Have you changed your mind?
*
“The ice tea is good,” Karen says, once they have settled on the screened back porch, lit by a single candle. They are sitting on the two Adirondack chairs facing the garden. The air is humid, buzzing with insects.
“My mom’s recipe,” Graham explains quietly. “Lime and brown sugar.”
“When did you buy the house?” Karen asks, turning her face towards him slightly, shadows dancing over her features.
“About six months ago. I’ve been spending most of my time on the renovations. Sanding the floors, repainting, renovating the garden, bringing in new furniture…”
“How about that normal job?” There’s a hint of teasing in her voice, that undercurrent of affection that he held on to during all these years they were together. “Jimmy Ryan at the radio station said you might open a record store in town.”
“Karen Sirko, private detective,” Graham laughs. “It’s true. I might, once I’m done with the house.”
“How about you? What brings you to Pittsburgh?” He asks, sensing that this is the time, the opening salvo.
“I’ve joined a new band. On trial. Hence the radio interview this morning. We had a concert tonight.”
“Big venue?”
“Nothing like our last one in Chicago,” Karen laughs and it’s the best sound he has ever heard.
It could have been like that. The two of them, on a porch, talking. The sticky summer air. The smell of freshly cut grass. The thrill of the cicadas in the trees.
He hums the beginning of a melody under his breath, notes he will try to recreate with his guitar, something to catch the moment like a firefly in a jar.
“Are you seeing somebody?” Karen asks after a while, matter-of-factly.
“No,” Graham replies. Not since you, he wants to add, but he bites back the words. “You?”
“No,” Karen says.
The silence covers them for a moment, a familiar blanket stitched with all their memories.
“Have you put into use that new bed of yours with anyone?” Karen whispers, her voice so low that Graham could swear he had misheard her. Except that he can see the small plastic wrapper she has deposited near his drink on the side table between them.
“One night in Pittsburgh?” he murmurs, wanting to make sure this is not an illusion, his heart beating faster than any rock song.
“One night in Pittsburgh,” she echoes and the words are the chorus of his new favorite song.
*
After, they lie side by side in the dark bedroom, under a cotton sheet, not touching except for her right hand in his left, her one concession, her only surrendering.
Karen’s head is on his pillow and Graham wishes he could tell her how happy he is that she is there, in his bed, in his house. He wishes he could confess that he fell for her on the first day he saw her play, in this very city, and how it’s been years but it’s also still the same, the perfect chord found on the first trial. But he knows that’s not part of the deal.
So, he floats as if on a wave, trying to capture what happened, the touch of her lips, the softness of her skin, the eagerness and ease of their bodies. They had learned to listen to each other from across the studio or the stage, to play off each other, adjusting pace and rhythm to suit the tune and the moment. And now, two years after, he finally realizes that they had been doing the same thing in their own private moments too, ever since that hazy Californian afternoon when she decided to give him a chance.
Before he falls asleep, she says something he doesn’t quite catch, three little words that sink under the ebb and flow of a dream.
*
When Graham opens his eyes the next morning, dawn is paling outside his bedroom window. He is alone. The only sign of Karen’s presence the night before is the lingering scent of her perfume. He pulls on a t-shirt and a pair of boxer shorts and goes down to the kitchen.
Karen is standing by the landline, barefoot, her leather jacket thrown over her dress like an armor. “I just called a taxi,” she explains, her smile not quite reaching her eyes.
He stays silent, goes to the sink below the window to pour himself a glass of water. He would drive with her to the end of the world and she must know it.
“I’m headed to the hotel and then to the bus station. I need to meet up with the band,” she pursues.
“Where are they?” Graham gives in, after gulping some water. His throat is tightening but he won’t give in to the emotions yet. He lowers the glass on the kitchen counter and turns to face her. If she notices his bleary eyes, he hopes she attributes them to tiredness.
“Cleveland tonight. And then west for the rest of the tour,” Karen says. Her loveliness in the early morning light overthrows him.
They walk together to the living room. She picks up her shoes by the couch where she left them. With the boots on her feet, she’s back to her fierce rock persona. If it didn’t hurt so much, he would grin at her transformation.
Outside, a yellow cab slows down in front of the house, its tires squealing on the alleyway stones.
“I guess I’ll see you around,” he stammers, cursing his own awkwardness.
Karen takes two steps and stands in front of him. With her heels on, they are almost the same height. “Pittsburgh,” she whispers. Then she kisses him softly, her hand caressing his cheek for a moment, and her lips on his are the final note to a secret melody.
“Pittsburgh,” he says, as if a single word could express what he truly feels for her and how much it tears him up to see her go.
She departs without looking back.
*
Much later, Graham writes a song about a woman in a flimsy dress, about sweet sticky summer air, about night kisses on a back porch, about what happens when a heart breaks. He titles it “One night in Pittsburgh.” And if people assume it’s about his wife, he lets them.