I’m by no means am an authority on jazz, but I love it. I like to think that jazz and I have a romance of sorts. We don’t know each other that well, but what we do know of each other we like.
The jazz music at the cafe a few blocks from our apartment has me relaxed, smiling and typing my first words on an early Sunday morning. The whimsical tune of the trumpet triggers a vivid and heavenly memory. It’s an invitation to our romantic past.
It’s twenty years earlier, summer, and I’m driving in a car with my college friends. In the backseat, cassette tapes spill out of his tattered, well-loved backpack. Conor shuffles carefully through them one by one. He holds up a cassette. He’s excited. “You guys know Billie Holiday?”
I don’t. We don’t. A talented musician himself, Conor is our trusted connoisseur.
“Please, introduce us.” I say.
Conor passes the cassette up front. Sara slides it into the tape deck. A quiet pause, and I’m hearing her voice for the first time.
Its husky and melancholic quality resonates and instantly seduces me. A sudden giddy feeling rises from within me, and I’m giggling delightfully. Conor turns to look at me. I hold his questioning and amused gaze. His blue eyes are otherworldy.
“I think I’m falling in love,” I say.