I don’t know why we are talking about jazz. Neither of us particularly like it, and I’m not even sure you could name three jazz records. Not that I could, but from the way you’re talking it’s as if you worked in a record store in the backstreets of New Orleans in the 1960s. But no, you’re wearing a dress that cost $480—I know because I was there when you bought it—Karen Walker shades and clunky, colorful jewelry. Your hands have never rubbed the brass off an instrument from overuse, your saliva has never leaked from a trumpet valve. You stopped riding horses two years ago to focus on your bikram.
“Jazz, you know, it’s, just, it. Like, when that trumpet flares, or that sax screeches, it’s like the perfect orgasm.”
‘The perfect orgasm,” I’ve never given her an orgasm. And I certainly don’t know how a sax screeching could get her off. “Sure. I get it.”
“But do you? Like, have you ever just listened? Closed your eyes and really listened?”
Sure, I have closed my eyes and really listened to jazz. Lots. Loads. When? How about when I bought a knitted jumper, some Ray Bans with no lenses and drank whiskey in dim-lit jazz clubs for three years? That’s when. Yeh, I’ve listened to plenty of jazz. I mean, for christ’s sake, neither of us has ever set foot in a jazz club, I am pretty sure you think Mickey Mantel was a trombone player, and the last album I heard you play was by Snow Patrol.
“Yes I have, now can we change the topic, maybe?”
“Why, you don’t like jazz? ‘Cos I love it.”
With that, she finished her vodka soda and we left. While we got ready for bed I YouTube’d ‘screeching sax’. The clip started and I gave her a wild glare and advanced, slowly, sensually, jazz-like.
Without a laugh she closed the lid of my laptop, rolled over and went to sleep.
Jazz, it’s, just, like, ‘it’, you know?