Deep Cuts

by Holly Brickley

It was the kind of beer that tasted like rubber bands but I drank it anyway, urgently, aware of the clock ticking on how long a girl could be alone in a bar before she became monstrously conspicuous.

off. Instead of sleeping that night I revised my end of the conversation in my head over and over, a lifelong pastime I always rationalized as productive since the lessons could apply to future interactions, though that never seemed to happen.

There were people who could make something like “Surf’s Up,” I decided—people with talent—and there were people like me who could only appreciate it. But at least I had that.

real

“I think songs gave me a window into a magical life,” I said. “Something bigger, or whatever, waiting out there. And I felt like the only way to get there was through the songs. Like the songs, if I listened hard enough, would show me how to get it right.”

“Don’t worry, I hate myself.” “I don’t hate you,” she said. “Me neither,” Joe said. “I love you, actually.”

I looked at Joe. He was looking at Zoe. Zoe was looking at her hands.

“This one is optimism,” I said. “Right,” Joe said. “The happiness of knowing that happiness is coming.”

That’s why the song was so short, I decided—because connection, like memories, came in the briefest of flashes.

“What is she writing about, really? Is she writing about the music, or is she writing about herself? Because if she’s writing about herself, we need more of her. And if she’s writing about the music, we need less of her.”

1. Cancel NY Times subscription 2. Get a job

My job search has ended in success; for more details see “Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now” by the Smiths.

If my “one who got away” (you never ask about her, but she still exists) suddenly wanted to try again, I would not choose you.

“You’re so smart!” she said accusingly. “I never understood it! Why would someone so smart be so fixated on pop music?” “I don’t know! We don’t get to choose what we love, any more than we can choose our talents. Don’t you get that?”

More have whined about being loved, but these dudes understood it’s the giving—the love you make—that matters more. Because where do you put the love you make, if you’re all alone?

“All songs written by Joe Morrow, with special thanks to Percy Marks.”

“Amazing. That is the best ‘fuck you’ in the history of ‘fuck yous.’ Like, okay, you don’t want to kiss me? I’m gonna make you sing about this mistake for the rest of your life, dude. You’re going to be singing about this at the fucking Troubadour in a fucking decade, dude.”

Honestly, how many different ways is it even possible for the same two people to break each other’s hearts?”

“Zoe, I love you,” I said, then added, “More than Joe. I love you more than Joe.” She laughed. “I love you more than Joe too.” “I’m right here,” Joe said.

“He met his match but couldn’t light it.”