The silence filled the room, a physical presence that seemed to stifle. I reached out and turned on my stereo. Whistling filled the room.
“What is this shit?” he grumbled, ruffled from our fight.
“Menomena.”
“What? I don’t want to listen to any Hispanic crap!” I could tell his blood pressure was rising again. But he wasn’t going to criticize one of the few things that I loved and helped me relax.
“It’s not Hispanic. It’s an indie group. They make some really neat and different songs. You should listen.” Silence began to press on my chest.
“It’s really odd. Whistling and odd beats. Turn it off!” He reached for the dial. I pushed his hand away.
“Why can’t you give anything different a chance? Just listen to the words! The music seems lighthearted, but the words go to a deeper level.”
The silence resumed, but the air had changed.
An hour passed. He rolled towards me on the bed, staring at me. I tensed.
“You know, Menomena isn’t half bad.”
I’d won the battle. This time.