The baby (who isn’t a baby anymore anyway) is already sleeping. She slips into something like pajamas and meanders through decades of someone else’s creations that everyone else calls music. A sax plays over people clapping as she finds herself transported to a smoky jazz club back in the 90’s, way before she had a baby to put to bed early. She wonders if she misses those years…but she already lived them, didn’t she? Lived them to the fullest, she hoped.
The mood changes as the playlist plays on (Spotify was a great invention of this generation). DMB sings about colliding or crashing in some various, mildly arousing yet chaste (is that oxymoronic?) expression of love. She recalls the many moments of crashing she’s witnessed over the last decade or so of marriage. Car crashes. Head crashes. Block crashes. Window crashes. Brain crashes. Soul crashes.
A soulful sax sings to her as cascading hair drifts from her shoulder and to tickle her arm.
In the silence of the music, she feels bliss…quiet…peace.