He thinks I’m joking.
That misapprehension starts to fade as we go into the second and then third song.
“Do you actually like this stuff?” he asks.
“My brother liked it,” I tell him. “Growing up, he’d always have this stuff blasting from his room. It’s how he and I really became close.”
“I didn’t know you have a brother,” Dane says.
“Yeah,” I tell him. “Whenever one of his favorite bands would come to the state, I was the only 12-year-old girl in the crowd. I never really loved it the way he did, but it helps me feel close to him again.”
“Where does he live?” Dane asks.
“He doesn’t,” I answer.
Maybe that was a bit blunt.
“He died in a car accident when I was 17. Some jackass on a cell phone crossed the middle lane.”
“I’m sorry,” Dane says.
I shrug. “It is what it is. Anyway, I think I’ve had about all I can handle for now. What do you like?”
“You mean music?” he asks.
“No,” I mock, “what do you like in general? For instance, bees: natural wonder or an abomination that the Bible forgot to denounce?”
He laughs.
“I usually just listen to whatever’s on top 40.”
I gag.
“What?” he asks. “Those songs are on the top 40 because that’s what most of the people in the country listen to. Are you saying everyone’s wrong?”
“Absolutely,” I tell him. “Top 40 is the same crap that’s been rehashed and rehashed since the 70s. The only difference is that most of the quote unquote artists on the top 40 now don’t play their own instruments or enter a studio without making sure the autotune is cranked up to 11.”
“I like it,” he says.
“You know what’s happening here?” I ask.
“What?”
“We’re sitting here and out of nowhere, you’ve become the scared little girl. That’s what’s happening.”
He laughs. “What? Just because I don’t like music with someone grunting over the top of it I’m a scared little girl?”
“Well, yeah,” I answer. “Next, you’re going to tell me that fights during a hockey game distract from the integrity of the sport.”
He mumbles something and I turn the radio down.
“What was that?” I ask.
“I don’t like hockey,” he says.
“Oh my God,” I gasp. “We’re in a relationship and I’m the man.”
“Whatever,” he says with a chortle.