he would listen, head slightly tilted, as sam beam whispered, in a way that only sam beam can, to me through the stereo. because he would know one sacred truth: there is nothing in this entire world important enough to interrupt "passing afternoon."
because lyrics are poetry and the english major in me dances when i discover a cleverly turned phrase or a hidden pun laced into an otherwise ordinary ballad. for years, i kept little mead notebooks full of them. i filled three entire ones before i hit middle school. in the age before the internet, i would lie on my stomach on the carpet in my bedroom, stopping and rewinding my favorite tapes to ensure i scribed them correctly. bone thugs-n-harmony's "crossroads" proved terribly difficult, and i wore out the single trying to figure out the rap. my alanis morissette phase is marked by astericks and @ signs.
later, i replayed "your body is a wonderland" until mama got sick of it and robert quit caring, because i loved the phrase "i'll never let your head hit the bed without my hand behind it." even now, when john's lost his appeal, i can still love that song for its cheesy sentiment that somehow hit a chord in me that few other songs have (until i heard passing afternoon, that is. sitting in the dark leather chairs of the library at midnight).
and there are times he forgets. when it slips his mind that i'm not just drumming on my steering wheel to the beat of a song, but actively, fully listening to the story. all it takes is one upturn of the eyebrow to remind him. not now, not now. not while poets are singing in my earbuds, reminding me of all the untapped beauty in the world. it's a brief reprieve, for certain. but a sweet indulgence nonetheless.
