When the duo stops, the crowd erupts in jovial glee. People stand, hooting and hollering, sending a sharp note through the air. Once the crowd calms down, the noise in the room is nothing louder than a murmur. I notice, as Michael takes a long sip of his beer, that there’s a guitar next to him, taking up a seat.

“What are you going to play?”

“That’s the question you have?” he replies. “Usually you’re asking, What year is it?”

“Thought I would shake it up this time,” I tease.

“I appreciate that.” A beat, or rather another swig of beer, passes. “Saturday,” he finally says, looking over at me. “You’ve only been gone a few days. I’m not even sure if gone is the right word. Missing sounds better.”

“I knew where I was,” I remind him. “I was back home—in my time.”

Michael shakes his head, pushing the beer over to me and offering me a swig, which I take—begrudgingly. “Not what I meant,” he says. He pauses, then adds, “I missed you.”

Michael must know that I’m mentally freaking out. His rough hand squeezes my shoulder just once. His breath, warm and sweet-smelling, tickles my ear.

“Trust me,” he whispers.

His words feel like some sort of Russian activation code, because as soon as I hear them, my shoulders relax, I nod, and my heart slows down. Michael sits there with me, in the faint neon light, submerged in the smells of peanuts and bad beer, his eyes locked with mine.

“You okay?” he finally asks.

My throat feels dry, and all I can do is nod. But that’s enough. He leads me over to the bar for a drink, and I notice, for the first time, where we are.

It’s mostly filled with men, but the dim neon lights give it an eerie, sunset-like glow, which makes it hard to see clearly. It’s relatively quiet; the conversations are barely above a low murmur, even though the alcohol seems to be flowing. Michael’s at home. His body is relaxed as he chats with the bald bartender with strong, bloated pecs and triceps. And then it hits me.

The Citadel is a gay jazz club.

I quickly flip through the history I remember for 1970. Gay rights weren’t a huge thing, but they were starting to gain traction, thanks to the Stonewall riots a few months prior. But there was also a war going on. Vietnam. All of these men look draft age.

So why weren’t they there?

“You’re wondering the same thing I wondered the first time I came here,” Michael says, slipping me a glass of beer filled to the brim. By the time I look up, Michael’s already halfway through his own massive glass. When he sets it down, there’s a film of white on his top lip, making his mustache look like a salt-and-pepper one.