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.



2 thoughts on “Jazz”

  1. Oh Deborah- love this post. First of all, I love that you are writing at a jazz club on a Sunday morning. Perks of living in a hip urban spot! Second of all, I love that you are writing about Conor. What a wonderful memory. Your use of sparse dialogue really centers the scene around the music and the unspoken feelings in the air.


  2. Music has that power to bring one back to another time and place. This is more poignant because I read Monday’s post first, then this.


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