2007-06-25 15:17:27 ET|
“Cuz I hate that song?”
“So?” I didn’t even think he heard me cuz he’s still in the other room. My stupid bra itches. Here he comes, “I don’t like it either, but I wouldn’t’ve skipped it.”
“So what, we have to listen to it when we both don’t even like it?”
“No. Here’s your blanket. I’m just saying. I guess I don’t just skip songs like you do.”
“You change channels lots.”
He’s so cool. He never minds getting up to get me stuff. I think it’s cuz he’s older. He doesn’t tuck me in for shit, but I love that he’s a guy who owns chenille throws. I press the back button on the click wheel.
“What? I thought you said you wanted to hear it.”
He’s shaking his head. “You just interrupted the other song now too.” He’s laughing. I love him. He doesn’t really get mad like other boyfriends.
I’m all bundled up like a burrito. My iPod is under the blanket with me, but he has a cable long enough that plugs into the stereo. I hit the stop button.
“Why’d you stop it?”
“Shit, I don’t know. Cuz we’re talking? So we can like listen to something else?”
“I’m just saying.” (He says that a lot. I’m just saying.) “It’s so easy to skip things now.”
I don’t say anything. I’m still just a burrito.
He reaches under the blanket. He touches my leg. I exaggerate how much it tickles, but he’s reaching for my iPod. He takes it and holds it up. “Do you remember what came before this?”
“Not right before. Remember high school? Remember how cool it was to have a tape deck in your car?”
Now I’m laughing. “No.”
“God sweetie, you are young. Anyhow, it was too much of a pain in the ass back then to fast forward through songs because you wouldn’t know when to hit the stop button. So you were sort of forced to listen to entire albums, even songs you didn’t like as much. But then you got so used to hearing songs in order, that when a song ended you actually wanted to hear whatever you knew was coming on next. If anyone ever made you a mix tape it would fuck it all up.”
The threads on this blanket aren’t just smooth, they’re slick. It must be rayon.
“But it made you like a lot of songs on the album that you wouldn’t like otherwise. Probably just because you got used to them. But now, with these things,” he’s holding up my iPod again, “you can skip over stuff without even looking. When was the last time you even listened to a full record all the way through?”
“I don’t know.” I don’t even think about it, but I like being part of his point.
“It’s like now we listen to someone only until we’re sick of them." He pauses. "Wait, hold on a sec.”
He smiles. “Yeah, brb.”
He runs to the kitchen. I like when he gets all excited and stuff. It’s cute. He yells from there, “Remember how we met?”
He comes back. He has my laptop under his arm. I’m so glad his house has wireless. He plops on the sofa next to me. “Here look,” he says.
“Well, what do you see?”
“It’s your MySpace. I already looked at yours a bagillion times today.”
“Fine, let’s look on yours.” He clicks on my profile. Scrolls down to my friend list and clicks.
“Why are you clicking on Amy?”
“I don’t know. It says Hola Kitty.”
“Yeah, that’s Amy.”
“Okay.” He scrolls down to her friend list and mouses over to someone else’s pic. “You know her?”
He moves to another pic. “What about her?” I shake my head. He clicks. Then he scrolls and clicks on a girl in her list. And then a girl in that girl’s list.
“What are you doing?”
“Here, look at her list of friends. We don’t know any of them. I don’t know any of them. But they’re all there.”
“I’m just saying. We only have to click on them.”
He puts the laptop on the coffee table and crawls under the blanket with me. His feet are cold.
A blanket has to be really big to keep two people warm. There has to be enough of it to fall into and fill up the valleys between their bodies. When it’s all stretched out, it’s worse. It’s actually colder. That’s the trouble with throws.