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I pick out the men who are by themselves.
One sits at a table in the corner, studying the drinks menu. Though I know little about her love life, he doesn’t appear to be her type—or what I imagine it would be. He’s too clean cut, too strait-laced, with a short crop of hair and a polo shirt. She likely gravitates toward the alternative types. The ones who seem in need of some grooming and make their earnings from playing guitar on subway platforms.
I glower at the thought. Her bad choices seem never ending.
I wedge myself in the last open space at the bar counter and order a brandy and coke. The incompetent bartender has no clue how to make drinks; I’m handed back a watery monstrosity that tastes like piss.
The piano players on stage have begun playing. At first, they play along with each other, and then, as they hit the climax of the song, it turns adversarial. The man on the left begins slamming his fingers on the keys to cheers from the audience. He plays fast, showing off with finesse to more applause. Soon, the woman on the right takes over and plays with as much gamesmanship, even swaying along to the notes she strikes.
By the end of the song, they’ve synced once more, playing out the finale in unison.
The crowd loses any decorum. I sit still and unaffected as everyone around me erupts into a massive round of applause. Some whistle, and others turn to their friends to rave about the performance.
My threshold for public outings like this is short. Most people annoy me; most human beings wandering this planet are extremely useless. To the point that, sometimes in moments like these, as I sit, a composed statue in comparison to every other breathing creature, I give into dark, violent thoughts.
I imagine what they’d do if I shut them up myself. If they would be so loud and obnoxious with an axe to the skull.
I blink out of my murderous trance at the sound of the announcer’s voice.
“Now for our next matchup! We have six-time dueling piano champion, Maximillion Keys and his challenger, newcomer Lara Hendrix!”
The crowd goes into idiotic overdrive, thundering applause at Maximillion’s name. Little to no one adds any applause for Lyra (aside from the fact the announcer butchered her name). The pair on my left turn to each other and voice their confusion.
“Lara who?”
My grip clenches on my piss-water brandy and coke, half a second away from correcting the idiots.
Maximillion and Lyra walk out onto stage before I can. They’re polar opposites in how they handle the moment.
Maximillion grins ear-to-ear and waves out at the crowd—he’s a fragile-looking man otherwise, barely scraping 5’6” or 5’7” at most, with corduroy jeans that are too tight and a button-down white shirt that’s supposed to resemble the keyboard of a piano. His hair’s trimmed on the sides with an odd swoop of bangs that fall partially into his eyes. He has what Nolan would jokingly call a punchable face.
The more people cheer him on, the more he eats it up. He waves and winks, doing a mock victory dance like an imbecile.
And then there’s Lyra.
She couldn’t reek of more insecurity. She appears like a pathetic mouse. She scurries across the stage and throws a nervous smile out at the crowd before beelining for her piano.
The woman has a master’s degree in music and has been playing the piano for much of her life. Yet she moves as if she’ll projectile vomit her lunch of PopTarts and Ramen any second.
However, I’m unable to take my gaze off her on the stage.
Most uncultured, simple-minded people of today do not appreciate true art. They prefer to rot their brains with slapstick-humored movies and mind-numbing video games. They listen to crass music with dumb, often linguistically incorrect lyrics, the instruments replaced by some digitized beat created in a studio.
I hold an appreciation for quality art—beautiful pieces of classical music. Though I won’t find that in a lowbrow place like the Velvet Piano, I can’t lie and pretend I’m not somewhat curious to find out how Lyra plays. If sheactuallypossesses talent to create such art.
The song they’re playing starts off at a jarring pace. The crowd recognizes it as Great Balls of Fire and cheers.
Right away, Maximillion establishes himself as the dominant player. He shows off for the audience, even chancing a quick wink at them. His fingers race across the keys, and he adds flair to his movements and the bounce of his knee.
Lyra tries to keep up, though more than once her nimble fingers slip and she flubs a key. The first one, she’s able to quickly recover and disguise. The second, she struggles to recapture her composure. Maximillion goes for the solo and she pauses, her face a blank canvas of what can only be imposter syndrome.
I recognize the knitted brows and shift of her glassy eyes. She’s inside her head, fretting over her mistakes and the solo that’s to come.
Where Maximillion drops off, she’s supposed to pick up. She misses by half a second, struggling to strike the proper keys in tune with the place in the song. A few mutters break out in the crowd.
Her terrible performance snowballs. She hits another wrong key and sets off a dissonant cord throughout the bar. One tipsy woman in the back boos. Others laugh.
Maximillion swoops in with the save. His hands move fast over the keys and his arms lift high and dramatically as he plays out the rest of the fast-paced song.
