Duet
In Addison's house, there's a piano – it's a scratched Steinway baby grand. She picked it up one day at the university's piano auction. Call it an impulse buy. You see, Addison is actually an accomplished pianist; but she hasn't played in years. Now, however, she finds herself sitting at her scratched black piano, staring at her reflection in the polished black ebony, moving her fingers soundlessly over the keys until something is reborn inside her and she starts to play.
When Addison plays the piano, caressing the keys with her capable surgeon's fingers, sensitive, creative, artistic, beautiful . . . Izzie likes to stand at the door and watch her play. Not only is the music absolutely out of this world – and for Izzie, anyone who can do something other than surgery is automatically three pegs above her – but Addison loses sense of everything and just gives herself to the music. It's always flowing. It's always delicate. It's always the same tune, probably the only one Addison remembers by heart; but in the end, it's always Addison. It's always Addison there in the music.
"Addie," murmurs Izzie, tangling her arms around the attending after a particularly satisfying bout of sex, "when did you learn to play the piano?"
Addie is surprised; this isn't a question she expected after making the beautiful blonde come three times, once to screaming point. She rolls onto her side, facing Izzie. "I suppose I've always known how. My parents put me into music as a young child. It was part of my education."
Izzie nods; this isn't a world she's familiar with. "Playing the piano is like performing surgery. It's so intricate – so exacting. I don't think I could ever do it."
Addison stares past Izzie, out the window and over the twinkling lights of the city. It's that pivotal moment, when twilight slips into velvet midnight blue. The last purple streaks of a magnificent sunset touch the water's horizon, and surprisingly, Addison's eyes fill with tears.
"Actually, Stevens, playing the piano is very like falling in love. It takes a lot of practice to get it right. Except when you fall in love, you don't always get a second chance to correct your mistakes."
Izzie looks surprised, but she doesn't ask and Addison doesn't tell. Sometimes, they have these moments of complete separation, and Izzie feels like she has no idea who this red-haired woman truly is.
Addison comes to, slips from the silken sheets, and walks naked across the room. She turns, the last bits of light just catching the points of her collar bone, playing over her smooth ivory skin. "Falling in love . . . Isobel Stevens, do you know what that's like?"
Izzie pushes her bewilderment down, she realizes that Addie isn't herself. "What does it matter?"
With that, she leads Addison, across the satin hardwood floor, across the soft carpet, and into the music room. Gently pushing on Addison's shoulders, Izzie coaxes the attending down, places her fingers on the keys.
"Show me what it's like to get it right the second time."
Two tears slip down Addison's cheeks; she strokes the keys of the piano gently, then turns her face up for a kiss. "I need you to learn the theory too."
Izzie puts her hands over Addison's, bringing her lips down to touch the older woman's lips tantalizingly. "Teach me."
The flowing music starts, Izzie's fingers move with Addie's, and all of the sudden, every andante, every largo, every pianissimo, is not just Addison – it's Izzie too.
Duets . . . duets mean that you're there to fix your partner's mistakes. And if you're too late to fix them, you can still carry the sonata through to the end.