He stopped in the middle of silence again.
Not long ago, I’d need to ask “what is it?” cluelessly.
I started listening too. Sounds like regular jazz. I tried to imagine what piqued his interest, but it sounds so regular. I tried to guess what his mind is focusing on.
“No, I don’t think it’s the original version.” He started a piece of middle of the conversation again.
I didn’t bother asking what the title is, both because I’ll probably forget and because education is not important to him right now. His in the middle of a discussion, not giving an introduction.
“I think they shortened that part and made the whole song longer.” Nowadays, he doesn’t hold back his enthusiasm, whether the person in front of him has a blank face, a polite smile, or eager opinions. He used to avoid discrepancy of knowledge and interest with others when it comes to music. But now, such concern is rare. His eyes are often arched like a crescent moon and short laughs hang on his open mouth.
Whether or not he enjoys the moment is solely dependent on himself.
He looks into the air and repeatedly rubbed his fingers against the hair behind his ears in a quick but thoughtful motion.
“Yeah, this type of jazz is best for cafes. They can put one album from morning to night, and no one will be able to tell.” He babbles happily to me, not noticing I wasn’t contributing to the conversation. He doesn’t need a lot of talk to be ensured of a conversation.
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