The Whisper of your voice

I play bass with a jazz band. I love it, I enjoy music as if it were a second skin. Always in some club. We arrive, set everything up, and the notes start flowing. We improvise, play classics, and leave with some cash in our pockets.

The bass is my thing. I'm the foundation of everything, the one who keeps the rhythm while the others fly. I like to feel the strings under my fingers, that deep vibration. Sometimes I do walking bass, sometimes I just mark time. But I'm always there, holding it together. When I find the right groove, when everything fits, it's perfect. The music flows and I'm part of it.

I've been with this band for five years, but I still get nervous before going on stage. I walk slowly to the microphone and greet the audience with a smile. Most nights someone asks me to play "Autumn Leaves," without fail. At first it bothered me, but now I even enjoy playing it differently each time. I've gotten into the habit of always carrying an extra pick-or two-because I lose them when I need them most.

We rehearse in the basement of Paul's house, our drummer. It's a small but cozy place. The walls are lined with egg cartons for sound, and there are Blue Note posters everywhere. I like to arrive early, tune up quietly before the others arrive. The old amplifier purrs when I turn it on, like a happy cat. We always stay an extra hour after rehearsal, drinking beer and talking about music until Paul's wife kicks us out.

My grandfather gave me the strap when I started playing in these clubs. It's old, the leather is worn, but I don't want to replace it. Sometimes I feel like it's the only thing I have left of him.

He was the one who taught me, who sat with me many afternoons, with patience and dedication. He was a professional musician, a bohemian, he lived life differently. I miss him very much.

My grandfather died three years ago, but every time I play, I feel like he's there. Sometimes, in the middle of a solo, I hear his voice saying, "Less is more, granddaughter." He was obsessed with rhythm, he made me play scales until my fingers hurt. But thanks to that, today I can play with my eyes closed.

The band is my second family now. Paul, Marco the pianist, and Xavi the saxophonist. We know each other's quirks, we know when someone is nervous or when they're going to improvise something crazy. There's a trust that builds just by playing together, night after night. When one of us shines, we all shine.

Where I haven't been shining lately is in my relationship. Maybe we moved in together too soon. We started with that feeling that everything happens fast because you can't wait. Two years. Last month he asked me to marry him and I said yes. But a wedding is far beyond our means. We don't live badly, but the situation isn't right for spending that much.

"We'll get married when things get better," he would say whenever he sensed me questioning him with my gaze.

"I know, Zachary. I'm in no rush," I would usually reply.

"I know it's what we have to do, but I can never get comfortable with the money situation."

Some nights, when I played, Zachary would show up. He would sit at one of the tables with a drink and do everything but listen to us. He would check his phone, look at other tables, order another beer. At first, I thought he was nervous, that he didn't know how to behave in a place like that. But then I realized that he just wasn't interested. The music didn't mean anything to him.

That hurt me. I didn't need him to be a musician, but I did need him to understand why this was important to me. One night he left before we finished the set. He didn't even say goodbye. Now when I play, I scan the audience looking for him. Sometimes he's there, sometimes he's not. When he's not there, I play better. When he is there, I get distracted thinking about what he's thinking. It's exhausting.

My dad didn't understand either.

He was always like that with me. When I was a kid and practiced scales in my room, he would bang on the wall and yell at me to turn down the volume. "That's not music," he would say. One night I came home from rehearsal and found my amplifier on the sidewalk. That's when I realized that, for him, I had to choose: his house or my music.

I chose music and ended up homeless. For the first few months, I slept in Paul's basement, surrounded by drums and cables. I ate noodles and played until my fingers went numb. It was hard, but for the first time in my life, no one told me to turn down the volume. Paul helped me find a small apartment later on.

Then Zachary came along. And he turned everything upside down. We met at one of those clubs where I played and he went to drink. It was love at first sight. I told my friends it was love at first sight.

"Do you like it, bitch? Do you like how I fuck you, Sabrina?" he always asked me as he growled and penetrated me deeply.

It was like a script or a fantasy he never told me about.

And I would say yes, moaning. Although the truth was that the sex was far from what I liked. But hey, he made up for his super macho image with other things. He still made me come.

"Scream louder," he would ask me. And I would scream.

It wasn't that I was looking for corny stuff. I'm not one of those women who needs candles and soft music. But there was something about his routine, about his dominant male act, that struck me as false. As if he were playing a role he had seen in some porn movie.

He fucked me as if he wanted to impress someone who wasn't there.

And it worked for me physically-that wasn't a lie. He made me come, he satisfied me in that sense. But I was left with the feeling that I was interchangeable to him. That any body would have done, as long as it screamed when he asked it to.

What bothered me wasn't the lack of romance. It was that feeling that he was fucking a fantasy of his, not me.

"Do you like how we make love?" That was another of his prefabricated questions.

And I always answered yes. Because technically it wasn't a lie. But every time he asked me, I realized that he needed that constant confirmation. As if he were evaluating his performance.

One night, after one of those sessions, I lay awake staring at the ceiling. Zachary was snoring contentedly beside me. And I thought, "When was the last time we made love without him directing everything like it was a movie?"

And a bad movie at that. I ended up convincing myself that it was okay, that you can't have everything in life. He was hard-working, he was considerate, he had a lot of shitty aspects, but at least he was there. And I was no "perfect saint" either, I also had that shitty side that not everyone knew how to deal with.

There are women who dream of a Prince Charming, all handsome and chivalrous. Like those wedding cake dolls. I dreamed of something else. When I told Andrea, she laughed: "I want one who spanks me and says, 'Bring me a whiskey, bitch.'" Zachary was far from that. But all the same, it broke me in half. Still, I broke down when that guy showed up at the door.