Isn't she lovely?
by Amelia Rodriguez
I’m having dreams lately that I'm getting hot and heavy and handsome with my boyfriend, and then abruptly have to stop- his tongue lamenting languages he's trying to learn without asking me too many questions. There are really only two perfect breakup songs- Mannequin by Katy Perry and Makes You Wonder by Maroon 5. If you want to be really sad, you can put on Better Time to Meet by Adrienne Lenker and Buck Meek- but don’t say I didn’t warn you.
I brush my teeth over a shared sink and understand the crust that builds in the corner of my eyes. 1 p.m. comes so fast when you don’t sleep until 5 a.m. My reflection is gorgeous and shitty. Tired skin, greasy bangs, Limp Bizkit shirt. I'm wrinkled and raw, and he is singing: "Isn't she lovely? Isn't she wonderful?”
Brain regions associated with pleasure, reward, and memory light up when we listen to music. This leaves us in a vulnerable spot. Raw and unguarded to what certain sounds may do to us. You like a song a little bit more than usual when you realize you can send it to someone who will appreciate it as much as you. You analyze the lyrics a little harder, hoping they can hear which ones you've italicized in your brain. You start cutting movies of shared memories and syncing it to the pace of the song. You rewatch it over and over and over again in your mind. A good song to do this to is You and Only You by The Softies.
Sending songs back and forth feels like sharing secrets. It feels like telling each other exactly how you feel without doing any of the heavy lifting. It is your safe bed, freshly made and your favourite pyjamas dryer-warm on top of your pillow. It is words from throats that are softer than they were in mouths. It is coming home to someone cooking dinner and playing your shared favourite song. It is a soft place to land. It is familiarity in comfort; it is the tether of a bungee cord. Your favourite tea is always brewing. Your favourite song is always playing. It is the phenomenon of birds having a preference for classical music. Familiarity runs deep.
I always wonder if finding someone with similar music tastes feels so good because we can see a piece of ourselves in the other person. It's a recognition that feels intimate without words. It makes them more tangible, more fleshed out. More relatable, more human, more identifiable. If we can both relate to A Case Of You by Joni Mitchell, what else awaits? If we can go from Leonard Cohen to Meat Computer to Water From Your Eyes all in the same car ride, without skipping a beat of conversation, what do we do with the air around our bodies? How do we let it hold each other and how do we keep our hands off each other? God, humor me! There is nothing more fulfilling than feeling known or singing a song into someone's mouth. Kisses that make you barely sorry for morning breath, faces squished together and soft songs escaping tired lips.
Much of life is like shuffling back and forth between Beach Boy songs until one day you fall upon Pet Sounds. You hear the words “God only knows what I’d be without you,” and you realize the empty, feel-good pop songs were just a series of appetizers before the main course.
He is saying my name like it's silky, sweet, sticky like caramel. He is twirling my hair, my heart, my breath, tightly around calloused hands. Music and melodies can get stuck in your head the same way a person can. When you start associating a certain person with certain songs, it is inevitable to think about them constantly. You sing them into existence until they are in front of you singing it back. Sometimes joy comes softly.
