Two Hearts in a Grave

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 2

I wake up in a cold, empty bedroom. It’s still bare, and the thin curtains let the moonlight in, making the room appear cooler again, showing just how little is in the large space except the bed. Most of my clothes are still in boxes because I haven’t cleaned the walk-in closet yet.

It’s not the light or the temperature that has woken me up, though. It’s a sound. Someone is stroking the keys of the piano downstairs. I recognise the tune straightaway. It’s ‘Lost’, one of my favourite songs from Jeff’s band SecondHandFantasy, one that hasn’t even been released. It has the most striking, haunting piano intro.

I get up and open the door to the landing. I can hear the music clearer now. The doors are not tight but of thick wood, so they keep the noise out quite well – not that Jeff’s playing is noise.

As I tiptoe down the stairs, I think about how much the piano means to him. It used to belong to his grandmother. He made sure I ordered a tuner for two weeks ahead because it’s important to retune the piano after moving. I thought he wouldn’t play it until that was done, but I don’t mind. Maybe he just wanted to wake me up gently although I can think of a thousand ways he could have done that, all equally as pleasant.

I pause in the doorway to the dining room. Jeff is sitting on the piano stool with his back to me. There are no curtains in the dining room yet, so the moonlight shines in, and that’s all he needs to play. I guess it’s a bit like touch typing – if you know where the keys are, you don’t need to see them. My own musical talents are modest. I’m not terrible but not gifted either.

I move towards him. I watch his long hair fall in his eyes. In the dim light, his hair looks grey, but in reality, it’s a dirty blond. He’s wearing his favourite oversized black cardigan, the hems of which drag on the dusty floor. He doesn’t hear me, and even if he did, I suppose he would be expecting me.

I reach the piano and stop next to it. He looks up and half-smiles at me. Jeff is not one to grin idiotically or to flash blinding smiles. He’s more subtle. That Semisonic song always make the think of Jeff. Many songs make me think of Jeff.

Although he’s now aware of my presence, Jeff doesn’t stop playing. I let him continue. I love watching him play. Although his moods aren’t extreme, the peaceful aura around him tells me how happy this simple gesture of letting his fingers bounce off the keys makes him.

As he enters the outro, I hoist myself up onto the piano. I know it’s precious, but I’m treasured too, so he won’t mind. A corner of his mouth twitches slightly as he sees me jump up.

He lets his finger remain on the final key, extending the note. I slowly swing my legs past the corner of the piano so that I am facing him. I slide a little closer to the edge so that my bare feet can reach to gently rest on his thighs. I wish I was dressed in a sensual satin nightie more suited to the occasion, but I’m in tatty flannel pyjamas with stretched-out elastic band around the waist. I don’t think Jeff cares. He reaches past my ankles to pull the lid down over the keys. Then he wraps his hands around my lower legs and leans his head against them, just enjoying being close to me for a moment. My heart beats faster. He shifts a little closer on his stool, brings his hands up around my waist and pulls me down so that my buttocks rest on the closed lid. He stands up, looking lovingly up into my face with those blue eyes. Jeff is not a tall man, so he is still lower than I am, but he doesn’t let that bother him. He leans in to kiss my neck and unbuttons my pyjama top at the same time. He works his way down my body, shedding the top so that it falls on the piano, his lips and tongue taking in my n*****s and every bit of bare skin on the way down. When he reaches the loose waistband of my pyjama bottoms, he raises me slightly to pull them down over my buttocks, leaving me sitting on the lid in my underwear. While he remains quiet, I feel his passion rising. He’s the silent type, and talking dirty is an alien concept to Jeff. He likes his body to do the work. At the same time as he keeps kissing me everywhere – back on my breasts, my hair, my neck, my earlobes, my lips – he brings his hand between my legs and plays with me until he knows I’m ready. It doesn’t take long. Guitarists make excellent lovers because they have such nimble fingers – although maybe I shouldn’t generalise. Jeff is the only guitar player I have slept with.

He shifts me on the lid again to remove my underwear, then undoes enough of his clothing to slide inside of me.

* * *

In the morning, I lay in bed, naked underneath the covers. My body feels pleasantly used, like someone has spent hours devouring it and reminding it how loved it is.

The sun is shining behind the curtains. That wasn’t the case last night. I remember hearing the rain beating down against the windows. Everything’s a bit of a blur, like a dream, but I remember Jeff carrying me up the steps, the material of his cardigan itching against my bare skin, his hair brushing against my cheek, us chuckling as he tried to angle his heavy burden on the stairs so that my toes wouldn’t hit off the wall or my head bang against the railing. He laid me gently on the bed and carried on right where we had stopped downstairs.

He’s not here anymore. He’s not in the room, and apart from how my body feels, there’s nothing to tell he ever was. I remember a hand on my cheek in the early hours of the morning and a whispered voice telling me he had to go. Jeff always has to go. Sometimes it’s like I live here on my own. That’s why I work so hard to make the house feel like a home, so that when he is here, he will be so happy he will never want to leave again.

I make my way downstairs, wrapped in a bath gown and with my feet stuck inside my trusty, dusty slippers, and while the kettle boils, I wander into the dining room. There, too, everything is where it should be, with the exception of my pyjama top on the piano and my pyjama trousers and underwear on the floor.

With my cup of tea, I move into the sitting room and light a fire. I’ll spend the day in that room, making it ready for Jeff’s return. I’ll hang up the curtains, unpack the boxes of books from below the stairs and the box of decorations from the corner and make it homely. Next time he’s home, he can make love to me on the couch or on the soft rug in front of the fireplace. Or on the bed, or the piano, or the kitchen counter, or the hall floor, whatever – I don’t mind.

I miss him so much.