Jazz Boyfriend


I feel you, girl.  I once balked at a third? fourth? date with a guy because he became Mr. Jazz when we went to hear the god awful “music.”  Squinty eyes, head bobbing in a meaningful way that saved dolphins caught in tuna nets and taught ESL to inmates, sucked-in cheeks, pursed lips that demonstrated a love and gentle understanding of humanity, one eyebrow arched left, one eyebrow furrowed right, tapping fingers to beats that vibrated in parts of his soul he didn’t know existed, passionate yet constrained collarbone glistening from beneath his open button-down shirt in the flicker of a red-glass candle.