My ears revolt, instantly, and he outright laughs at the look of horror I can’t keep from my face.
I bolt back to the controls on my keyboard and my fingers fly across the trackpad to turn the volume further down, lest anyone hear the dissonance currently murdering my speakers and my eardrums and mistake it for my taste.
He drops his head back and laughs.
“Not a fan?”
I’m gonna say there’s a reason I listen to mostly pop. It’s time-tested. Backed by social proof. Millions of other ears have given it the stamp of approval before it hits mine. You can call me basic if you want, but to me it’s just smart investment of my precious time, my most valuable commodity.
I don’t have a driving need to be on the cutting edge of new trends in most areas of my life (outside of marketing), and I have no problem being a little late to the party, finding out about the best new song or artist after they’ve already blown up. So far, it’s done me good. My taste in music, just like clothing, is timeless. Classic.
You know who’s never assaulted my inner ear and made my skin crawl with intentionally jarring sound? Selena. Rihanna. Ariana. Maybe this artist’s name should end in an-naand that would solve their issues?
“Here’s what I don’t get,” I start with instead of a direct attack. Asher drops into the chair in front of my desk, amusement written across his features for me to read like lyrics in the booklet in a CD case.
My fingers do a couple intentional taps until the music changes to an eighties and nineties pop mix, and my ears breathe a sigh of relief instantly.
“Ah, yes, back to the pop mix. Let’s not upset the apple cart with something fresher than 2009.” The would-be acerbic bite in his words is softened by the gleam in his eyes that tells me it’s in good humor.
“What exactly is it you don’t like about popular music? Hmm? It’s catchy? Melodic? Pleasingly predictable?” My brows are raised in defiance, challenge.
“Exactly! It’s all been done before. Trap is one of the firstnewsounds in decades.”
“I’m starting to understand how your generation ate Tide pods,” I tell him in a low voice, like it’s all becoming clear.
He pops a brow in response.
“You clearly have no taste.” I can’t even say it with a straight face, a giggle breaking free on the last word, distorting my delivery.
He rolls his eyes adorably, letting me score that point without making a return.
“Wait a minute!” I exclaim in sudden realization, raising one finger like I’m the Doc who just made a discovery or something. “You’re telling me, as a graphic designer, you listen to something that’s that atrociously unpredictable and intentionally jarring? Imagine a design like that!”
His eyes muddy with confusion. “What are you talking about?”
“The laws of art and design apply to songs just as well as to digital designs.” I open up a new Chrome tab and start clacking away on the keys. “Hear me out.”
I do a quick search for some aesthetic design pieces, waving my manicured claws (in Bubble Bath, my staple shade since high school) at them to illustrate my point, like I’ve prepared a PowerPoint presentation on this, and didn’t just think of it seventeen seconds ago, pulled out of my ass.
“You start with an initial layer, a pleasing undertone that sets the vibe, creates amood.” I say the word with comical inflection. “Then you add in harmonious elements that complement each other,” I raise the volume on the song that’s playing, pointing a finger in the air, signifying he should listen, while we wait for my point to be illustrated by the vocals, the accompanying instruments. “Then you round it out to make it full, aesthetically pleasing.” My fingers twirl, both in the air, toward the notes filtering into our ears, and the screen, where image after image greets our eyeballs. “If thatthingyou played for me were a visual design, the eyes wouldn’t know where to look first! Nothing flows, nothing goes together how it’s expected to, your ears don’t even know what to land on!”
I rest back in my chair, proud of my off-the-cuff dissertation, my analogy to his profession.
His eyes light with humor, amazement, something soft. “That was an incredible glimpse into your brain, but honestly? I just think it’s fun. It’s something I can get lost in, have a good time with. Maybe I’ll make a design that compares, create something that goes with your little metaphor there and shows you how pleasing it can be to just enjoy it, not look for meaning or predictability in everything around you for a change.”
Before I can retort, there’s a triple-knock on my door frame. Without looking up, I know who’s there. His voice calls out anyway. “You’re here! Ellie, Asher, you’re both in the same spot, perfect.”
Asher’s back straightens, like he’s not sure whether he should stand, or if he shouldn’t be in here at all. Technically, we’re definitely fucking off, on the clock, right here and now, but my dad won’t call us out on it on the first time.
“Mr. Mitchell,” he says as my father approaches.
“Please, call me Thomas,” my dad says jovially, his full face alight with the possibilities of a new day. Some things run in the family, I guess.
Our eyes meet, both blue-gray and often twinkling, and we exchange a wordlesshello, good morning.
“I wanted to poach you two for a project that needs you.”
My brows raise in surprise. This is unusual.
