It’s the understatement(the presentation of something as being smaller, worse, or less important than it actually is.) of the century. 

I grew up in a house with three big dogs, a cat with the lungs of an opera singer, two brothers who played the trumpet, and parents who found the background noise of the Home Shopping Network “soothing.”

I’d adjusted to the quiet of my Bonnie-less dorm room quickly, but this—sitting in silence in traffic with someone I barely know—feels wrong.

“Shouldn’t we get to know each other or something?” I ask.

“I just need to focus on the road,” he says, the corners of his mouth tense(become tense, typically through anxiety or nervousness).

“Fine.”

Alex sighs as, ahead, the source of the congestion

appears: a fender bender.

Both cars involved have already pulled onto the shoulder, but traffic’s still bottlenecking here.

“Of course,” he says, “people just slowing down to stare.” He pops open the center console and digs around until he finds the aux cable. “Here,” he says. “You pick.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Are you sure? You might regret it.”

His brow furrows. “Why would I regret it?”

I glance into the back seat of his faux-wood-sided station wagon. His stuff is neatly stacked in labeled boxes,

mine piled in dirty laundry bags around it. The car is ancient yet spotless. Somehow it smells exactly like he does, a soft cedar-and-musk scent.

“You just seem like maybe you’re a fan of . . . control,” I point out. “And I’m not sure I have the kind of music you like. There’s no Chopin on this thing.”

The furrow of his brow deepens. His mouth twists into a frown. “Maybe I’m not as uptight as you think I am.”

“Really?” I say. “So you won’t mind if I put on Mariah Carey’s ‘All I Want for Christmas Is You’?”

“It’s May,” he says.

“I’ll consider(think carefully about (something), typically before making a decision) my question answered,” I say.

“That’s unfair,” he says. “What kind of a barbarian((in ancient times) a member of a community or tribe not belonging to one of the great civilizations (Greek, Roman, Christian)) listens to Christmas music in May?”

“And if it were November tenth,” I say, “what about then?”

Alex’s mouth presses closed. He tugs at the stick-straight hair at the crown of his head,

and a rush of static leaves it floating even after his hand drops to the steering wheel. 

He really honors the whole ten-and-two wheel-hand-positioning thing, I’ve noticed, and despite being a massive sloucher(an awkward, clumsy, or slovenly person.) when he’s standing,

 he has upheld his rigidly good posture as long as we’ve been in the car, shoulder tension notwithstanding.

“Fine,” he says. “I don’t like Christmas music. Don’t put that on, and we should be fine.”

I plug my phone in, turn on the stereo,

and scroll to David Bowie’s “Young Americans.” Within seconds, he visibly grimaces.

“What?” I say.

“Nothing,” he insists.

“You just twitched like the marionette controlling you fell asleep.”

He squints at me. “What does that mean?”

“You hate this song,” I accuse.

“I do not,” he says unconvincingly.

“You hate David Bowie.”

“Not at all!” he says. “It’s not David Bowie.”

“Then what is it?” I demand.

An exhale hisses(to make or emit a sharp sound like that of the letter s prolonged, as a snake does) out of him. “Saxophone.”

“Saxophone,” I repeat.

“Yeah,” he says. “I just . . . really hate the saxophone. Any song with a saxophone on it is instantly ruined.”

“Someone should tell Kenny G,” I say.

“Name one song that was improved by a saxophone,” Alex challenges.

“I’ll have to consult the notepad where I keep track of(To continue to monitor or keep an active account of someone or something so that one remains well informed about them or it.) every song that has saxophone.”

“No song,” he says.

“I bet you’re fun at parties,” I say.

“I’m fine at parties,” he says.

“Just not middle school band concerts,” I say.

He glances sidelong at me. “You’re really a saxophone apologist?”

“No, but I’m willing to pretend, if you’re not finished ranting. What else do you hate?”

“Nothing,” he says. “Just Christmas music and saxophone. And covers.”

“Covers?” I say. “Like . . . book covers?”

“Covers of songs,” he explains.

I burst out laughing. “You hate covers of songs?”

“Vehemently(in a strongly emotional or zealous manner),” he says.

“Alex. That’s like saying you hate vegetables. It’s too vague. It makes no sense.”

“It makes perfect sense,” he insists. “If it’s a good cover, that sticks to the basic arrangement of the original song, it’s like, why? And if it sounds nothing like the original, then it’s like, why the hell?”

“Oh my god,” I say. “You’re such an old man screaming at the sky.”

He frowns at me. “Oh, and you just like everything?”

“Pretty much,” I say. “Yes, I tend to like things.”

“I like things too,” he says.

“Like what, model trains and biographies(an account of someone's life written by someone else) of Abraham Lincoln?” I guess.

“I certainly have no aversion(dislike) to either,” he says. “Why, are those things you hate?”

“I told you,” I said. “I like things. I’m very easy to please.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning . . .” I think for a second. “Okay, so, growing up, Parker and Prince—my brothers—and I would ride our bikes up to the movie theater, without even checking what was playing.”

“You have a brother named Prince?” Alex asks, brow lifting.

“That’s not the point,” I say.

《People We Meet on Vacation》

by Emily Henry  从朋友到恋人

只是搬运工加个人笔记。