Piano Bar     By Luis Amate Perez "You're not in an egg," I yawn to the wall, my free palm against it. And it's so cold that for a second I really do think I'm inside one of those 12 Jumbo Eggs in my refrigerator: Grade A Fresh, America's Choice. "In an egg," I repeat as I turn back over and remember she slept over again, second night in a row, unplanned. Naked, a small pimple between her shoulder blades, her thighs hold my comforter secure, the black and beige sides of the cotton alternating between pinning and being pinned. It's too warm to start a tug-of-war, besides I don't want the blanket. I don't want to be the blanket...nor her panties (when they're not lying on my hard wood floor)— not right now—I've been there already, New Years 2005 sometime after 1:00 AM, I guess, and then a few more times after that. Later, about a month, it's the second night in a row she's slept over, unplanned. I vault over her body with an oomph expecting a giggle before I land, or when I land, or when the dark light catches my bare ass and I'm visible, or when I pull up the wooden blinds and throw open the bottom window to the night and my body shivers for a second before oomphing back over her into the bed. But she doesn't move. She doesn't make a sound. The heat runs through the pipes, four or five drum sticks left to their own devices, not caring if they keep a beat, or keep me awake. Earlier, before the shower, before she said, "I'm not that light," before she bought a six pack of Bud Light from the Korean couple on the corner, before the five long necks found themselves unopened on the bottom shelf of my fridge, before we left her friends (two straight, two dykes, tall guy) at Doc Watson's chit-chatting their regular chit-chat with the Irish behind and around the bar, before it started to snow, and we agreed, "It's like a movie," I put two bucks in a fishbowl on the piano at Brandy's and requested some Billy. New York State of Mind. She explained to me, as we sat at the bar, me to the left, her friends to the right, "Everyone who works here is in musical theater. They're all actors. The waitresses get up and sing songs." She put her lips against the small glass mouth of her Amstel Light. "Isn't it cool?" Of course, I nodded, then I stirred and sipped my Absolut. "We have a request," the piano player leaned into the microphone and ran down the keys like he's supposed to, that's how the song starts. "A little Billy Joel for ya," he had to mention so our group could blow some curt claps and affirmations off the heads of their beers. I watched the player smile, his eyes downcast on the keys, his hair—a dirty, trimmed mop, and a slight twitch in his neck. Finally he looked up, shook a string of hair from his face and became, along with his piano, an extra in the scene. The dialogue around me read: Yeah? That's him, at the end of the bar—that's Doug from Trading Spaces. Holy shit! No, I got this round! Then somewhere in there: Isn't it cool? Of course I had to nod. But that wasn't Billy up there. That wasn't his song. It wasn't a song at all. It was something else. It was a part of the paraphernalia, like the posters and playbills that hung comatose on the chipped brick walls—it was a state below furniture, below candleholder, table, stool—below chatter and the resonance of a glass. The dialogue around me read again: Yeah? That's him, at the end of the bar—that's Doug from Trading Spaces. Holy shit! No, I got this round. Then somewhere, I think I said: Isn't it cool? Later, before I tried to wake her into laughter, before she said, "I'm not that light," before the shower, she sat on the sink and I was inside her, inside her, eyes closed, only the sound of our bodies, clapping, applauding something, out there, in here, clapping, clapping, clapping, paying close attention to some detail, to some request we both made—two bills folded in a fishbowl—and there was nothing but clapping. For a moment, everything stopped to listen. When we were out in the snow, she had said, "It's like a movie." And I had nodded. Isn't it cool? The heat wavers in its cadence, beats steadier on the pipes. When she wakes up maybe we'll grab some breakfast. The room will already be aired out. Luis Amate Perez is a graduate of the Gallatin School of Individualized Study at NYU,and a member of the ECNY 2005 Best Sketch Group, The Wicked Wicked Hammerkatz (www.hammerkatz.com). He is currently working towards an MFA in Fiction at CCNY