“I never liked jazz music because jazz music doesn't resolve. But I was outside the Bagdad Theater in Portland one night when I saw a man playing the saxophone. I stood there for fifteen minutes, and he never opened his eyes.”

“To most white people, jazz means black and jazz means dirt, and that's not what I play. I play black classical music.”

“I don’t know a thing about jazz.” “That’s okay.” He pulled me toward the door and opened it. “You know music. Jazz will explain itself.”

“A few minutes after discovering we had a goal but no plan, Brent was laughing heartily at a pathetic joke I had made. It reminded me of the firstday on campus when I had thought his laughter sounded like a melody. It did now, even more so. It was music, beautiful, in a manly way, like asensual, slow jazz. I loved jazz.“Jazz, huh?” Brent asked, his voice suddenly husky.“Uh . . . what?”“My laugh reminds you of jazz? Is there anything about me you don’t find attractive?” He rubbed his hand over his lips trying to cover his smirk.“So tell me, how much do you love jazz?”I’m sure my face was pinker than the inside of a watermelon. “I didn’t say any of that.”“You didn’t have to say it, Yara, I could hear it.” Brent tapped the side of his head. “I can hear your thoughts.”“You’re not serious.”“Oh, but I am,” he said, completely straight-faced.”

“It's hard to explain what happens when jazz and punk fuse with a violin twist but it works. Probably because Anson Choi takes off his shirt while he's playing the saxophone. Whoever's not chatting up a Cadet or a girl from Darling House or playing chess with the guys is watching the band. I turn into agroupie.”

“My other friends are in music relaxation class, which I do not attend, because smooth jazz makes me angry sometimes.”