Dance Lesson No. 2 (smooth jazz)

It’s hard to describe, this smooth jazz gism that leaked from my girlfriend/fiancee’s large flat-panel tv. It was sort of like Joel Olsteen on Sunday mornings. I mean, seriously, if this is your spirituality and musical investment, I don’t want any part of it. Yet, there we were, locked in some sort of cruel death match. I mean, she liked music. She liked me. She really liked wine.

I was writing short stories in my mind about the man who lost his shit to the sound of smooth, tasteless, and generic jazz coming off Spectrum’s free music channels. I guess my sense of humor outweighed my sense of dread. I could not marry this woman. Ever. I was having a hard time sitting on the comfy couch she bought for me from Rooms to Go but took back as soon as she discovered she liked it. The comfy couch, the cat on my lap, and the lost classics from artists you’ll never hear outside of streaming free services.

Now, I’m not a jazz or a wine hater. I actually have fond memories of this dynamo of energy and wit. The “have you ever dating a marathoner” woman had her moments. But something happened as I was moving out, despite her comforting words of remaining friends. That held until I started dating again. Then, she came after my girlfriend on Facebook. Like, what? Who does that shit? We’re in our 50s, please.

She even left my girlfriend a few voicemails about what a fk up I was. We laughed together about those. Then we blocked and cock blocked her on all channels. Nothing could get through. And I would never, ever, have to suffer another morning together cleaning the house and doing laundry with smooth jazz that was more like smooth elevator music.

I still think of some of the dance moves she taught me, like cooking as foreplay and cleaning up the kitchen immediately after eating. I’m still trying to embrace the first one and I forget the second one.

“Smooth jazz?” you ask. No thank you, I actually like to pick out my music.

Read more Short-Short Stories from John.