Stephen Mejias

"Are you listening to the Bee Gees over there, Stephen?"
Silly as it may seem, I take Elizabeth's question quite seriously: "No," I say, "But it does sound a bit like it, huh?"
"Um, yeah."

She agrees that the music sounds like the Bee Gees, but I can't tell if she's happy about it. Not by the inflection she uses, not by the thoughtful look in her eyes, not by the bend in her half-smile; I can't tell. My natural insecurity, however, is pestering me — urging me? tempting me? persuading me? recommending that I should...? — my natural insecurity is blanking me to lower the volume.

But I resist.

It's not the Bee Gees. Well, it is the Bee Gees, but, then again, it's not. Not the Bee Gees, at all.

"Her name is Feist," I say.
"Hmm."
"Yeah, the music sometimes sounds a lot like disco. Other times it sounds very jazzy. Sometimes she reminds me of Sade — you know, really smooth, soulful stuff, but with funky rhythms and beats."

I thought it was strange that I used the word "funky." It's not a word I use often.

"I like it," I concluded.
"Hmm."

A nod, perhaps. A moment passes.

"Okay, I think I'm going to have to ask you to lower the volume now."
"Oh, sorry."
"I'm about to start dancing in my seat over here."

She's about to start dancing in her seat over here, but I can't tell if she's happy about it. Not by the inflection she uses, not by the thoughtful look in her eyes, not by the bend in her half-smile; I can't tell.