jazz and her

"Why do you like this kind of music" she asked very abruptly cutting the silence which was filled with jazz. A weird question to me. The way she asked it, made me feel ashamed. Her voice was like the officer interogating a criminal has, it was harsh. I let the music settle in, Chet Baker's I fall in love too easily acted as a ointment to the fresh cut, she had gifted me trying to know me better, maybe. 

We had been talking for about a month now. Beyond old book cafes and those rarely visited antique corners of the town, we spent time driving around the city roads. We could see the country from the car. Vast never-ending tea gardens with a backdrop of hills with green trees. It looked unreal, but I spent most of my time gazing at her, short hair not very nicely cut, half crooked smile and confidence so high, I was maybe in love. As we drove through the same roads, that day in my car we were a bit more silent. And silence was pretty rare. She liked talking about a lot things. We spent past few weeks talking about movies, Denise Velneuve's vision in Arrival or the totem of Inception, the one common theme was jazz in the background, smoothly flowing into the atmosphere and making it all so more cozy and personal.

But today, jazz was loud. And we were quiet. Out of everything common in us, only music differed. She had never listened to jazz, the closest she came was that one Damian Chizzel movie. And today she asked it to me, "why jazz".

I didn't know what to say. How could I even approach the answer. It wasn't very simple anyways. Jazz was natural to me and I never thought about it. I choose not to speak, I looked at the scene beyond my window and just drove. We came from different backgrounds. She was a rich rebellious girl in her 20s and I was a boy from the same country that seems so unreal to me. My father owned a bar and my mother, she ran away with a soldier is what I had heard from others. I never asked my father about it ever. At the age of 16 I decided to run away from home. It wasn't a decision I came up with easily. I always felt like this isn't the life I want. but when  my father wanted me to work in the bar, I knew I had to do something. I never wanted to be in that place ever, I wanted to live a good life. So I decided to run away, but I did take something with me from home, Jazz. In my 30s now, I wonder if my father is still alive, but I am not a man enough to go check on him, I fear what he might think, or say. 
But for the lady I was driving around the town with, I was still a jazz loving man who drove around working three different jobs. I never told anyone where I actually was from. But for the first time in my life, this lady felt like home. 

Dream a little bit of my by  Fitzgerald played and by then I guess she had lost hope of ever knowing why I loved jazz. I didn't know either. Why do I love jazz ? Why do I love her ?

This road doesn't end, I hope it doesn't. I just wanna be driving on this road. On one side is my truth, the country and the life I left behind and hid. On the other side is the life I created for myself, the truth I evented. And what's connecting them is not this thin road, but jazz and her. 

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