She lay, naked, draped across the piano, her nipples still erect from her recent encounter. Globules dripped onto the keys, lying like translucent mercury pools, somewhere between solid and liquid, defying definition. She might be asleep; she might not. It's a special private place which cannot be shared or revealed. Her right hand slowly stroked the keys, as if to play; but there is no need for music now. She has her own sounds playing breezily around her; no need for form. Her fingers hesitate slightly as they play across the keys, as if reminded of her guttural expressions which recently filled the room. Her breathing was calm, but shallow -- a wave had passed through her, soaking her but now leaving her utterly changed but intact. There is no sign nor sound of another player on this primordial stage. Thanks to AMé for the cover art. Special thanks to a loud, short, fat, hairy-assed, umbrella-carrying American and Tony UPS (auto 73, actually).