by Jason Jackson

I meet this girl at Dan’s party and we start doing that thing where you pretend to be interested in what the other person is telling you while frantically trying to think what the hell to say, you know? So she says, "Do you like Caravaggio?" and I tell her no, that I don’t really like any classical music, and she laughs a little, as if maybe she likes me, and I start riffing on all the great bands I like - Devo, Wire, you know, obscure but not fucking bizarre, in case she thinks I’m, like, a geek or something - and anyway, things go from there, I walk her home, get her number, blah blah blah. It gets to six weeks later, we’re still together - I’m totally into her at this point - and we’re at another party, when some idiot friend of Jake’s says to her, "So what made you want to go out with a jerk like this?" and she tells him about Caravaggio, about this little joke of mine, about how it was funny, and cute, and clever, and how I’d cut right through all her pretentious bullshit about art and stuff. And this jerk friend of Jake’s, he says that he’s surprised I even know who Carravaggio is, and she laughs, and he laughs, and I laugh too. The next day I spend hours on the internet looking at all these beautiful paintings, and I’m crying my fucking guts up, but then, later, she phones me, we arrange to meet at The Ivy at seven-thirty, and as I put on my jacket I’m thinking, ah fuck it, you know? It’s not like she’ll ever find out.


Jason Jackson has been writing for four years. You can read his stuff at,, and in Pen Pusher Magazine, among other places.