Story # 12 “You Understand”

“You Understand”

Anne had been quiet all day. She got like that sometimes. Working as a clinical psychologist can be stressful. I get it. I hated to see her sad, so I offered to take her out to The Professors’ Pub down on Water Street. Good drinks there, and cheap. I thought Anne probably just needed to unwind a bit. She offered to drive even though it was only a couple blocks from the apartment, but it was the end of February and cold as hell, so I said what the hell, let’s drive. Beats walking in the snow.

I was feeling good. We hadn’t had a chance to go out together for a few weeks and she was looking really pretty. When work was good, I always tried to pay for everything- our meals, our drinks, our concert tickets—and lately, work had been good. I held the door open and let the warm rush of air from the pub waft the scent of her perfume over me as she walked inside and took a seat at our usual table a little ways from the bar. I swear to God, as long as I live, I’ll never forget the scent of her perfume.

I ordered a scotch for myself and a pint of cider with cinnamon sugar on the rim for her. She liked it sweet. I glanced back at her as Jason, the bearded bartender who could quote Mallrats line for line, poured our drinks. Her shoulder-length blonde hair fell about her face as she hunched forward, typing out a text or a Facebook status update. I smiled. She was the kind of girl who proclaimed her undying love by tagging you in her post, like “He just brought me a pint of my favorite Ben & Jerry’s at work. OMG love u babe!!!! – with Conroy Sweeney,” eye-rollingly lame, but sweet.

She gave me half a smile and reached back to put her phone in her coat pocket when I set her drink down in front of her. Progress. We sat in silence for a few moments as some Bruno Mars song played over the speakers. She tasted her cider and licked at the sugar rim with that pink tongue of hers as I sipped my scotch. I figured it was up to me to break the silence. I picked up on the awful pop song. My awful taste in music was always a surefire way to get her talking.

“God, this music. Who wrote this song, a fifth grader? I mean, I know you like this kind of stuff, but I prefer folk music. Americana. Like Mumford and Sons, you know? There’s just something raw and real that you just don’t get with other styles of music.”

Anne sipped her drink. She seemed fixated on tracing the woodgrain of the tabletop with her manicured fingernails.

“Ok, what’s wrong Anne? You haven’t said a goddamn word all night. Used to be I couldn’t get you to shut up when we would talk about music.”

She just fingered the rim of her glass, flicking the cinnamon sugar into the cider below.

“Come on, you don’t want to tell me how my taste in music is trash? That the only music truly worth listening to is post-rock?”