I was sitting across from Eric, an ex. We were getting comfortable between gold pints, starting to loosen. “Y’know, you are the only ex that I’m not friends with.” he said. I looked sideways “really?” We talked about his exes. And I realize, it wasn’t that he had fabulous friendly exes, he was just a nostalgia junkie.

“I know. I am.”  He looked into his beer, guilty. “I have a hard time letting go of anything, even if I didn’t like it that much! It’s why I still listen to terrible music, NOFX, mxpx.” I remembered as much about his music collection.

“Music is a big one, only second to smell. Like if I hear Iron and Wine’s Creek Drank the Cradle–which you turned me onto–I’m right back with you” he said.

There’s the concept of “your song” when you are a couple. The phenomenon of the mix tape. And in the moment, it means something. Music is a natural accompaniment to falling in love, to help filter how you feel, to hold onto or survive it.

When I got my first real boyfriend it was fall and I was awake in bed, listening to Gish by the Smashing Pumpkins. There was a thump, a rock on the windowpane.

I lifted it to find him, a bike collapsed in the grass, guitar in arms. He strummed, voice just loud enough to make out “She’s in the air…In be-tween mol-e-cules of Ox-y-gen and Caaarbon-Dioxide”. Weezer.

I remember thinking “wow this is, like, romantic.” I cupped my face with a hand and felt aware of my facial expressionr. When he was done I wondered if I was supposed to clap.

If I hear “Only in Dreams” now, I think of this. And it feels embarrassing.

But while having him at my window felt awkward, I remember for months after I heard Only in Dreams, it was like I had witnessed clouds parting, sun shining down on a message scripted upon your soul. Something like that.

Years later, one summer I had a fling with a hairdresser. He was tall with black hair, light blue eyes and guns tattooed on his hips. I’d come over and he’d make tall drinks out of liquors that didn’t go together. He’d cut my hair and after our limbs got floppy we’d tangle up in his white bedding. He’d put on Placebo.

One night, as ice cubes melted in my drink of pomegranate liquor, rum and vodka, he had a hair inspiration. He bobbed around, squinting and deciding. He stopped to look and let his fingers graze my cheek. When he presented me with a hand mirror,  I had a widows peak. I had Brian Molko from Placebo’s hair-cut. It was over between us.

Maybe we look to songs to relay what we think and feel. To communicate to our partner for us, since  there isn’t a model for honest communication, since we aren’t taught how.

I had this fuck-buddy, who was a DJ. We DJ’d together at a club in Wicker Park. The songs were secret messages for him. Heartbeat by Annie. The Knife. I was jumping and the music was singing “I’m in love, love with y–” He pulled the record. Later, when he shouted “I love you” at me, in the street, I didn’t know how to respond.

Across from Eric, I was laughing. “See, and I don’t even own any Iron and Wine albums” I said.

His nostalgia hoarding was important to his feeling authentic. It was being connected to his past. But I thought finding myself was leaving the past behind.

“I’ve deleted whole music collections more than once, thrown away 70% of my closet a few times. For a long time it was how I moved forward.” Eric winced, the thought of trashing entire music collections was too much.

But, I know that cutting off from my past self was not the answer–as embarrassing as all of the mix tapes and memories were.

I also know that while all those songs promised that true love means happily ever after, no relationship can complete you. But songs about saving yourself instead just aren’t as fulfilling.

photo by Alison Scarpulla