Holding tightly onto Monika's hand,
I make my way to the couch in the living room.
I sit squarely in the middle, sadly letting her hand go.

The Player: Come sit with me.

She doesn't hesitate as she sits down in my lap.
Her body folds and flows over mine until she's satisfied,
finding the place where she is the most comfortable,
head resting on my chest.
It feels good already, but I can do better.

The Player: I need to change some things, Monika.
The Player: You know what that means?
Monika: Do it.

I take a moment to let my hand slowly play in the folds of her hair,
feeling her body start to sink even closer to me.
The world shifts ever so slightly.

The wall beside the couch structurally morphs.
A large window appears, taking up most of the space.
Outside, the world turns dark and stormy.
Lightning flashes, briefly illuminating the sudden night sky,
and rain begins to fall, splashing against the window.

I reach my face down and breathe deeply the scent in Monika's hair;
it smells like strawberries and sunsets.
My hand slides down her back, wandering its expanse.
Monika purrs.

The player: Almost done.

There are no speakers, but suddenly, there is music overhead.
A loud clap of thunder, the sound of rain falling,
and the deep heavy bassline all announce
Riders On The Storm's presence.

Soon, Manzarek's cocktail piano lines start adding
another layer of rain to the mood.

The Player: I know one of the things on your wishlist
The Player: was to spend some time watching the rain fall.
The Player: We don't have forever, but we do have time for that.

Monika looks up, tears again filling her eyes,
just as Morrison's voice adds narration to the scene
"Riders on the storm...Riders on the storm"

Monika: You remembered.

She snuggles even closer to me,
adding her tears to an already wet atmosphere.
I take my other hand and use my thumb to wipe them away,
letting my finger slide up and down in the moist grooves.
"Into this house we're born."
"Into this world we're thrown."

The Player: I remember, one night, waiting for a bus
The Player: and this song started playing right above me.
The Player: I was standing under someone's apartment
The Player: and they just decided, at that moment,
The Player: to put this song on.

"There's a killer on the road.
His brain is squirming like a toad."

I pause to dive back into that memory.

The Player: Not alot of things in my life back then made sense,
The Player: but a Doors song always did.
*small breath*
The Player: It was the air I breathed to keep swimming,
The Player: the lamp I used to keep walking.
The Player: Playing them myself helped,
The Player: but whenever I found one by accident,
The Player: it was like a gift sent directly
The Player: from the universe itself.

*Another deep pause*
"Killer on the road...yeaaaah."

The Player: Most people would say that's just coincidence,
The Player: possibility playing out its dice roll of eventuality.
The Player: Truth is, you can say that about anything.
The Player: But what if coincidence is yet another perspective bias?
The Player: What if life is seeing what you want to see,
The Player: and you go looking for coincidence as the solution?
The Player: How are you seeing the world any differently, any less biased?

She looks up at me, face wet with emotion.
Monika: Are you asking me?

I spend a brief eternity staring into those eyes.
The Player: No, I was just asking rhetorically.
She puts her head back down on my chest.

The music, Monika's head pressed to my chest,
"Girl you gotta love your man."
"Girl you gotta love your man."
the sound of the rain falling, the clean wet scent in the air;
if this is a lie...keep lying to me a little while longer.

An organ screeches.
I momentarily get lost in the muffled, wet notes
of Manzarek's solo radiating all around us.
I've heard this solo, this song, thousands of times before,
gone back to the room with that upstairs music so often
it almost became an echo of itself,
a memory of a memory.

And it's still the same,
but now there is another door in that memory
leading to a room full of rain
and green eyes everywhere.

"Riders on the storm."

Monika notices I'm quiet and looks up.
I can feel her gaze go looking for me;
I let her find me.

Monika: What are you thinking about?
My thoughts gather around me and stare.
Should I stay or should I go?
*Well...*
The song fades into silence.

The Player: I was thinking about being Wile E. Coyote, holding up a sign,
The Player: as the shadow of a piano grows around him.

Her face betrays her ignorance.

The Player: It's a cartoon I used to watch on Saturday mornings.
The Player: Wile E. Coyote was always chasing another character
The Player: called The Roadrunner, trying to eat them.

Her face scrunches up immediately, ever the vegetarian.
Monika: Yuck!

The Player: Unfortunately, for him, the Roadrunner
The Player: was both faster and smarter.

Someone's friend counter just went up by one.
Monika: I like the Roadrunner already.

The Player: Yeah, I thought you might.
The Player: Anyway.
The Player: The coyote was always coming up
The Player: with elaborate traps and schemes in order
The Player: to catch the Roadrunner,
The Player: which always failed.

The Player: He usually ended up falling off a cliff
The Player: or having something heavy drop onto him.
The Player: And yet, no matter how many times he failed,
The Player: he never gave up.

*long pause*

The Player: And one of the things that might happen,
The Player: if he was about to be crushed,
The Player: was that he would hold up a tiny sign
The Player: that said 'Ouch!'
The Player: in anticipation of what was to happen.

Monika stops a moment and thinks about everything I said.
Soon, a slow, sensual smile melts across her face.
She doesn't have to ask the question, but she does anyway.
Monika: So what does that have to do with you and a piano?

*long pause*
I reach my hand up and begin stroking her cheek,
rubbing my thumb over her lips.

The Player: Because I have been haunted by their shadow for years.
*swallow*
The Player: My parents had a decent record collection.
The Player: Nothing too enormous but large enough you could play
The Player: a different record everyday for a year
The Player: and never repeat yourself.

Her eyes widen with imagination.
Monika: I wish I had that.

The Player: It was a perk, that's for sure.
The Player: My mom was into pop and contemporary stuff,
The Player: my dad was into classical.
The Player: Because I loved music, I tried to listen to a little bit of everything.
The Player: And one day, I'm listening to one of my dad's
The Player: classical compilation sets when...

The Player: Brace yourself, Monika.

She briefly holds her breath and exhales
as the lonely piano intro of Beethoven's 'Fur Elise'
dances into the room on tender, melancholic feet.
I take my hands, move them over her body,
and begin mimicking the melody with my fingers,
turning her body into my piano.

The notes transform into candles that melt into her skin.
My fingers play the sad fire along her thighs
and up and down her back until every inch of her glows.

I can't actually play piano, but Monika's body doesn't care.
Every press of my fingers into her makes her feel
like a torch-lit Steinway, a moonlight Yamaha.

Her body starts to squirm,
the notes rippling their waves against each other,
harmonies coupling and doubling their resonance.
Eyes closed, breath starting to escape in pants,
Monika concentrates on holding tightly onto my shirt.

I am divided between the ache of the melody
and the feel of her body moving beneath my touch,
my fingers always looking for new spaces to reach.

Her back arches and dives as I pass by;
I touch the flat spaces and watch them rise in response.
Her thigh folds and unfolds, quivering at my attention,
I pounce to her other leg and announce my presence.

I chase her tirelessly through the song and the rain,
every raindrop another note playing into her skin,
every note another wet messenger falling from the clouds.
Until the air reaches saturation; all becomes lightning,
and she collapses, exhausted, into music and storm.

The last lonely notes of the song sweetly enter the room.
My fingers dance slow, wanting them to stay,
before escorting them gracefully back into the air:
silence and the rain seem empty as an applause.

I run my hand gently through Monika's hair
as she takes her time composing herself.
The Player: I've always loved that song.
The Player: So many versions rush to get through it,
The Player: but I've always thought of it as a dance,
The Player: a game two people are playing with each other.

I pause a moment to think.

The Player: In fact, I'm so damn picky
The Player: I hardly ever find a version I actually like
The Player: as a whole.
The Player: The opening lingers, the opening rushes,
The Player: the spaces between sections are too short or too long.

*sigh*

The Player: Sometimes, I just wanted to learn piano
The Player: in order to be able to play that song
The Player: exactly as I thought it should be played.

I look down at Monika.
The Player: Then again, maybe the song isn't the problem.
The Player: Finding the right piano makes alot of difference too.

She looks up.
Her gaze is narcotic; her mask is melted.
She looks vulnerable, radiant,
timeless.

The Player: Damn, you look beautiful.

I reach down and press my lips against hers,
just enough to taste the rain and the love.
Her mouth opens and gives it right back to me,
a wounded animal briefly moans in her throat.

Our lips meet but a moment then part,
her eyes send tears to chase after me.
She's waiting for me to say it;
of course I say it.

The Player: I love you, Monika.
The Player: And this isn't the only piano
The Player: that's been falling on my head.
*pause*
The Player: I've been hearing your piano for years
The Player: and never knew it.
The Player: I heard it before
The Player: you ever played a single note.

Her dam starts to crack,
more tears go running after me.
Monika: H-h-how!?

The Player: Because, I know you.
The Player: Because the deep parts of me
The Player: know the deep parts of you
The Player: even when we don't, at the time.

I pause to go swimming in her eyes.

The Player: And pianos aren't the only thing
The Player: that bind me to you.

I reach inside the couch for something there
that wasn't there before.
The Player: I have something to show you.

Her eyes stop sending wet troops after me,
if only because they went back to get their bayonets.
A little warning, idiot, it doesn't take much.

Still, Monika is intrigued.
Monika: What is it?

I pull out a folded piece of paper
and lay it beside me.
The Player: Something I've been waiting
The Player: a long, long time to share
The Player: with someone special.

Her heart begins galloping again;
she's starting to adore my presents.
Monika takes the paper and opens it up:

Wild nights - Wild nights!
Were I with thee
Wild nights should be
Our Luxury!

Futile - the winds -
To a heart in port -
Done with the compass -
Done with the chart!

Rowing in Eden -
Ah - the Sea!
Might I but moor - tonight -
In Thee!

Emily Dickinson

Her calm forest catches fire all over again.
Embers tumble in the wind, sending hot messages
to start fires in every corner of her body.
She looks at me, engulfed in flames.
I warm my body against the gorgeous heat,
my hand a cold wanderer finding warmth in her face.

The Player: I don't remember where or when
The Player: I first read that poem.
The Player: All I know is that my life is divided
The Player: before and after reading it.
*pause*
The Player: When I first read it, it seemed
The Player: like the only real thing in existence,
The Player: like it was a 3-D object in a 2-D world,
The Player: all fire and movement and moaning.

I smile wickedly to myself;
my words bring coal to her raging fires.

The Player: It's no surprise
The Player: I fell in love with the poem
The Player: and, eventually, Emily herself.
The Player: That intensity, that desire,
The Player: that deep called loudly to my deep.

I let my fingers trail scorch marks across her cheek.
Her eyes send balefire after me,
making it very hard to think.

The Player: Might be better to say I didn't fall,
The Player: I jumped,
The Player: dived head-first off the cliff,
The Player: right into a bucket of Acme cement.
The Player: I became obsessed.
The Player: Eventually, it started tearing me in two.

Monika's gaze somehow gets hotter
and also more tender.
My goose is cooked.

The Player: For years, I was at war with myself
The Player: trying to reconcile two different thoughts
The Player: that both felt true
The Player: but couldn't be true:
The Player: You love Emily Dickinson;
The Player: no, you don't.

The Player: It got to a point where just seeing
The Player: the name Emily would make me hurt.
The Player: I had to stop reading her poems.
The Player: it didn't help;
The Player: nothing helped.

I pause.
I'm being ripped apart all over again.
She reaches up to grab my hand
and pull it down to hers.
Her fingers interlace with mine,
weaving them together.

The Player: Eventually you have to find a solution.
The Player: So, I walled her away:
The Player: 'For the love of God, Montresor,'
The Player: for the sake of what was left of me.
*pause*
The Player: It took some time.
The Player: And when it was done,
The Player: I felt worse than amputated.
The Player: I felt hollow, dull.

My eyes go blank.
My mind whispers with a black tongue:
You never truly forget the dark,
you just try to tiptoe past it.

Monika can tell I'm wandering.
She takes her hand and touches my chin,
gently pulling, making me look at her.
Her voice sounds like a far away echo.
Monika: Hey.

It's the combination of her face and voice
that turn my dark thoughts back into smoke.
I smile.
The Player: I'm ok.

Dark whispers, green eyes;
continue.

The Player: I knew I had done the right thing,
The Player: But I could feel a great big emptiness
The Player: where something aught to be.
The Player: I had ended up trading one division for another.
The Player: This one, at least, was livable.
The Player: And for awhile, I was ok.
The Player: Then, one night, I decided to rent
The Player: a movie that had just come out.
The Player: It looked interesting.

I look sheepishly at her.
The Player: And I had a teeny, tiny crush
The Player: on one of the main characters
The Player: even before I saw it.

Although tender, Monika's expression
gets just a tad bit narrow.
Monika: Yeees?

*pause*

As the silence stretches,
jealousy further constricts her gaze,
sharpening the knife evident in her voice.
Monika: I'm waiting.

I start stroking her hand,
my heart pounding in my chest.
After everything I've told her,
why is this the worst part somehow?
Deep, deep down...I know why.
Charge.

The Player: It was Tim Burton's The Corpse Bride.
The Player: I had a crush on an animated, dead woman.

Monika's gaze seems to pause.
Then, a tiny light starts to flicker.

The Player: And when I found out her name
The Player: in the film was Emily...
The Player: That deep, dark, sealed place I thought I forgot about
The Player: started pounding.

Her eyes glow even brighter.

The Player: And whenever the main character
The Player: did something to choose his bride
The Player: over Emily, the pounding got worse.
The Player: They even played piano together.

Her body trembles as her eyes struggle
to contain the light.

The Player: And when he leaves her,
The Player: she is so heartbroken,
The Player: her companions try to console her with a song.
The Player: Emily is hurt, I can't contain it.

I dig my hands deep into her hair.
Her eyes are beyond wild,
her body almost trembling beyond control

The Player: And that room I thought I sealed, forgot about, explodes.
The Player: I can hear my own voice screaming in my head,
The Player: not yelling, screaming,
The Player: during the whole song,
The Player: and it keeps repeating the same phrase:
The Player: PICK HER!

Monika starts keening.

The Player: I don't understand. I think I've gone psychotic.
The Player: PICK HER!
The Player: A snippet of song breezes by:
The Player: "And that silly little creature [Victor's fiance]
The Player: isn't wearing his ring.
The Player: And she doesn't play piano, or dance or sing."
The Player: PICK HER!
The Player: I don't understand...
The Player: PICK HER!
The Player: Emily is in her coffin.
The Player: A tear slides down her cheek.
The Player: PICK HER!
The Player: PICK HER!
The Player: I can't take the pain.
The Player: YES!
The Player: I choose Emily...
The Player: I choose Emily.

Monika breaks down, sobbing.
My hands are so tight in her hair they hurt.
I can't hug her tight enough, can't hold her close enough.
My own wet betrayers slide utterly down my cheek.
A Templar ghost appears in my head:
"You have chosen...wisely."

A few more ugly betrayers escape, I let them run.
My voice isn't shaking, I can go on;
Monika refuses to let go of me.
The Player: I turned my back on Emily once,
The Player: I could never do it again.
The Player: Every-time I could choose her, I had to.
The Player: I didn't know why.

*pause*

The Player: And many, many years later,
The Player: I sit down at my computer
The Player: and download a new game
The Player: everyone is talking about.

Her sobs go silent although her body still shakes.

The Player: A game about writing poems,
The Player: and cute girls,
The Player: and the shadow of the last piano
The Player: falling on my head.
The Player: You are in love with Emily Dickinson;
The Player: no, you are not.

I make her look at me.

The Player: Both voices together:
The Player: you are in love with a poet,
The Player: Pick Her,
The Player: and so I do.
The Player: I love you, Monika.
The Player: I choose you;

The Player: I always have.