Page 95 of The Triangle

I wish I could see her eyes. I feel certain they’re closed. The way she’s giving herself over to her playing, there’s no way she can be thinking about it. She’s unconscious, and it’s mesmerizing.

She comes to the conclusion of the piece and she strikes the final. Three. Notes. With a languid precision. Methodical in their delivery, but insouciant in their execution. It is, quite honestly, a perfect performance. And only Danny and I get to hear it.

I begin my clap slow and soft, so as not to startle her, but startle her it does nonetheless. She jumps and spins around.

“Shit! You fucking scared me.”

I continue my applause. The small smile on my face is mixed with something akin to wonderment. Danny’s head is cocked to the side, and after a moment, he shakes it a bit and begins clapping as well.

“What?” she asks. “What? Why are you doing that? Stop it.”

It is annoyance underpinned by insecurity. Feeling exposed can induce that in a person. Instead of stopping, we both applaud more vigorously.

“Fuck, stop, goddamn it! Seriously. Don’t make fuckin’ fun of me.”

I start shouting, “Brava! Brava! Encore!” Danny does the same. In his own way. His choice of words is, “No fuckin’ way! That was fuckin’ incredible!”

“You guys are assholes,” she says, attempting to motor past us. Danny stops her, grabbing her by the arm.

“Hey, whoa. Slow down,” he says. “We’re not fucking with you. That was… When did you learn to play like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like flippin’ Yuja Wang,” I say.

“Fuck is Yuja Wang?” she asks.

“Trust me, it’s a compliment,” I tell her. “But as Danny asked… Oh,” I say, having a sudden dawning. “Is this one of those situations where someone takes a bump on the head and it unlocks some prodigious ability that they never knew they had?”

She looks at me with exasperation. “No,” she says, “I just, y’know, practiced.”

Fair enough.

“Well, it paid off. Color me impressed,” I say.

She steps back from the two of us, looks at us standing there shirtless and somewhat awestruck at the discovery of our Christine’s freshly unearthed talent, and says, “Yeah. I guess we’re all learning a whole lot about each other recently, huh?”

I have no idea if she’s aware of the fact that she’s being dead clever with her couldn’t-be-more-right observation, but I choose to take it as such.

“Yes, my dear, we are.” And pressing toward her, I reach to my side and take Danny by the wrist as well.

“Fuck are you doing?” he asks.

“Christine here’s not the only one who can make sweet music.”

It is, of course, an awkward attempt at seduction, but I’m far less interested in being witty than I am in seeing both of them naked and writhing in about thirty seconds.

Christine bows her head, looking up at me through her eyelashes as I press my body into her and walk her backward, dragging Danny with me as I go. Danny’s not galloping along, per se, but he’s not exactly resisting either. We might not be able to live here forever and escape the dangers of the great, wide world beyond, but we are here now, and that’s all that rightly matters.

The backs of her knees hit the piano bench and she drops into a sit. “Do you even play the piano?” she asks me.

“No. Why?” I respond, sliding her top off over her head in the process.

“Because this is like a hundred-thousand-dollar Steinway sitting in a glass box in the middle of nowhere.”

“I told the designer to think liberally,” I tell her as I now lift her shirt from her head and drop to my knees to emancipate her from the bondage of her sweatpants.

She presses her palms onto the bench, lifting her hips, and aids me in sliding her bottoms off. It is notable that she is not wearing any underwear. Braless, panty-less, her white skin in graphic contrast to the polished ebony of the piano bench. Like one, lone, ivory key waiting to be played.