Nothing But Dave

Breaking Up Ruins My Playlist “I’ve noticed,” he said as he took a seat at my desk, “that although Spotify has a wide range of music styles and artists, you only listen to Dave Matthews Band. I would expect you to have broader taste than just Dave.” With resentment at the intrusion while I was writing, and having to pause Grey Street, I clicked the button on my keyboard to allow my limited attention to fall upon the visitor. His green eyes followed me as I turned from my desk to face him. He was wearing the thick wool white sweater I loved. After a weak moment when I disclosed my preference, he’d worn it three times since. “Nice sweater,” I said. “I like it. So do you. We’re still good for dinner tonight?” He rubbed his hands on his knees. “Of course.” I crossed my legs, revealing my leather boots. He stared at them. “I’m thinking lakeside,” I suggested. “Agreed. The sunset should be amazing.” He tapped his feet. “But back to my question.” “Why only Dave?” I asked, reiterating. “Yup. In all these months, that’s all you ever play.” I stared at the ceiling, locating the dust web that plagued me. I needed to dust. I said, “I have eclectic musical taste. Pretty much love everything. But Dave Matthews is all I have left.” He frowned. “All you have left? How so?” I offered a sheepish smile. It was all I had at the moment. “Because each time I break with a man, I can’t listen to his favorite music anymore.” His frown deepened. “Leaving you only Dave Matthews?” “That is correct.” He tilted his head. “That’s a lot of guys.” “Depends on who’s counting,” I said. I turned in my chair to face him. His five-o’clock-shadow was distracting. I said, “I love the theatre.” “I’m sorry,” he said, offering a chuckle and a wide smile. “Anyway. I love it. Wicked. Les Mis. Rent, especially. I’ve seen Rent seven times. But then I dated a performer for quite a while. He’s married now to some lady who likes to crochet. But listening to any Broadway show bothers me. He liked Elvis, too. All taken when we broke up.” “The Broadway crap, no biggie. But Elvis? That’s a crime,” he said. “I know. Nothing I can do. I hear Elvis and Mark’s face comes into my mind and I can’t shake it.” I closed my eyes, trying to wipe any residue away from my thoughts. When I opened them, he was still staring at me. “I’ve upset you.” “Not at all. I understand completely.” He leaned back in the chair and stretched. Then sat up with a start, and said, “You can’t be a true Gen X without some grunge. Pearl Jam. STP. Tool?” “Nope. Not anymore. A Chris Cornell devotee broke my heart. I can’t listen to grunge without crying.” “That’s sad.” “I guess.” I shrugged. “It is what it is.” “You’re protecting your heart. Explains why you refused my advances for these many months,” he said. “Two months.” “An eon,” he said. I laughed. He had pursued me for several weeks. Asked about my interests. If I was single. If I liked Italian food. I asked, “Your point?” “There must be some corner of the music world that doesn’t trigger you into increasing Kleenex’s stock. What about jazz?” he asked. “Don’t even get me started. I divorced a jazz trumpet player. Now anything jazz related is painful. He also took drum corps. And Chicago.” “Bastard. How about 80s crap? You know, George Michael?” He flipped his hand up and waved. I smiled. “Love George. Don’t pick on him. He’s a love. But now I can’t. High school and so many no-shows at school dances it can’t be counted.” I shrugged. He frowned. “That I can’t believe.” “Yet, it’s true.” I reached for my coffee to avoid his stare. He continued, relentless. “Rap? Club? Dance? I bet those are a big no with you.” I nodded and said, “You’d be right there. I don’t have the palate for those.” He paused, and his brow furrowed. He tapped his knee with an elongated finger. He asked, “Disco?” “Nope. His name was Joe. Big Earth, Wind, and Fire fan. Which sort of covers the genre,” I replied. “True. But the seventies had other choices. Country rock?” “Ugh. Lost the Doobies and Alman Brothers with a guy named Jim.” “Glam rock?” “Lost that, too. That paramour was a Bowie freak.” “That’s a damn shame.” He shook his head and pouted. “You’re telling me.” I mirrored his pout. “Irish jigs?” he asked, a chuckle caught in his throat. “His name was Dave.” “Seriously?” he asked with his green eyes popping from his lids. “No shit,” I said, reminiscing for a moment. “Fun times.” He looked at the ceiling. “Did you see the dust thingy up there?” I nodded. “I have.” He stood, extended his arm, and considered jumping. Lowering his arm, he disappeared for a minute and returned with the broom, which he used to swipe away the web. As he returned to the kitchen, he called out, “Alternative? Yes, Rush, Pink Floyd?” “Another Jim took those.” I blurted my response. Why stop now? He returned from the kitchen and said, “Glad my name isn’t Jim.” “Me, too.” He asked, “Classical?” “Dated, seriously, a pianist. No more Mozart or Beethoven or any of that for me.” “How about Blues?” he asked. “Nope. My first meaningful relationship, all he played was blues. Especially B. B. King. And some Johnny Cash. Can’t do it.” He frowned and again tapped his knee with his finger. “Opera. Can’t be anyone — really?” “Yup. He was older. Distinguished. Drove a Porsche. Broke my heart when I refused to live in the apartment he offered me. ‘Nuff said there.” “Wow.” He shook his head. “That’s probably quite a story.” “It is,” I said. “You going to tell me?” he asked. “Probably,” I admitted. He gazed at my boots. Then shook his head and raised his