You show up at my apartment suite, and I’m dressed in a charcoal black turtle-neck, a matching, felt jeff cap, and neatly pleated dress-pants. I’m snapping my fingers, off tempo, to the soothing sounds of some jazz record I purchased earlier today. I have its sleeve taped against the wall like a poster, just above the record player. “Let’s swing things up in here, cat!” I tell you it’s jargon, baby. We sit down on my couch, and I pirate a 480p production of Whiplash (2014) off a sketchy website with my laptop. I tell you I’ve seen this movie at least five times, but I haven’t even seen it once, and I’m not really watching it right now either. Instead, I use my index finger to play time on the back of your hand, lightly tapping tss ts-tss-tss ts-tss-tss. “It’s all the rage,” I eventually say as I lean in. You inform me that my breath smells like coca and hot milk.
Odd.
