You said you felt under the weather. I suggested soup and you replied tomato. Tomato with grilled cheese. While I blanched them, you put on Van Morrison and scrolled through my songs. You considered yourself an expert.


“You need to clean your music library. Doesn’t it annoy you? How do you know what you have, what you don’t have?”


I shrugged.


“Why don’t you at least keep the genres organized?” you pressed.


“Why put songs in boxes? Why label them?” I was being ornery.


“Angel Pop? What the hell is that? Rainy Day Rock? Sci-Fi? What kind of musical genres are these?” You sounded sick.


I shrugged. It was all downloaded. Some legally, some not. The music came from pretentious blogs and Russian websites and some place called torrent. Data mountains from Korea, Morocco, mouth-breathing basements.


“You know that’s stealing,” you lectured.




It was Veteran’s Day when we decided to call it quits. It was raining. We called it quits, whatever ‘it’ was. We had never labeled it.


“I can’t make you happy,” you said.


“I can’t give you anymore,” I said.


You got out of bed, even though you hate the rain. I started scrolling through the songs by genre.


Afropop, Avant Folk, Crossover, Death Electro, Ethnic, Forgiveness Rock, Future Roots, Gracenotes, Merengue, Mexican Summer, Noise, Progressive, Surge, Trip-Hop, Tropical.


I x’ed out. There was no use. You took everything and left me with a head cold. 


by Sonya Bilocerkowycz


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