Congratulations on Talking About Bands!

You and Kerri watch CSI: Jerusalem every Monday night together. It, along with awkward, brief sex and a dislike of people different than you, form the cornerstones of your relationship. Without it the two of you would never last.

Or so you thought.

This evening, after a long day working at your mid-level accounting job with moderate hope for advancement to an identical, higher paying position with a less transparent name, you’ll get home hoping for nothing more than forty minutes of rapidly interrupted entertainment filled with inaccurate information about science, technology and society and lots and lots of jump cuts. You’ll also hold out aspirations for getting to cup Kerri’s left boob during one of the many tense scenes which will receive unsatisfying resolution at episode’s end.

Which is why it’s going to royally fuck with your head when you open the door to your apartment, step inside, close it and the lights promptly go off. You’ll flick the switch up and down several times, hoping that this is some sort of hilarious misunderstanding between you and your home’s wiring, but without luck.

You’ll stand there, dumbstruck in the dark, until your girlfriend enters the house and almost runs in to you. She’ll be sweating from taking the stairs and holding a flashlight.

“You okay?” she’ll say.

You’ll nod. Speech will not have returned to you.

“I think the power’s out on our block.”

You’ll nod again, jaw hanging a little. She’ll look a little worried and frustrated. Mostly frustrated, actually.

She’ll pause for a few seconds to see if you’re going to say anything, but you won’t so she’ll shrug, step awkwardly around you and head over to the kitchenette to get the candles out. She’ll cluck her tongue as she uses her Bic to start each wick and sets each of the bases on saucers reserved for coffee with company you never have.

Your speech will return as she pokes through the fridge, looking for something that doesn’t need to be heated up. She really won’t want to get take out that night.

“What will we do?”

She’ll assume you’re talking about dinner, rather than your ritualistic Monday night activities.

“Maybe we should just get a pizza?” she’ll say her brow furrowed as she runs her flashlight’s beam over the interior of the fridge. “I really don’t feel like heating hummus again today.

You’ll nod. “But what about after? What about Monday?”

She’ll laugh. “I wouldn’t worry about it, honey,” she’ll lilt as she juggles phone, flashlight and flyer to dial out. After a brief exchange she agrees to meet the pizza man downstairs, where the two of you wait.

While you’re down there you’ll tell her, in a strange burst of honesty, that you’re really freaked out about not watching CSI: Jerusalem tonight for reasons you’re not entirely sure of or comfortable with.

She’ll pat your hand and nod.

“It’s okay. We can find something just as devoid of emotional and mental content to occupy our Monday night while we eat takeout.”

You’ll nod in response and the two of you will head upstairs to eat your sausage, onions and peppers pizza by candlelight. Then you’ll break out the old acoustic guitar and discuss bands like you’re college freshman, using a lot of terms you half-understand and generally trying to reach a consensus rather than engaging in an actual conversation.

It’ll go on for a while until you start rambling about Kenny Rogers and Kenny Loggins and which one is the better artist and she’ll just stand up and hurl her wine glass across the room.

“Jesus Christ!” she’ll shout, trudging over to your front door to put on her shoes. “You are fucking unbearable.”

You’ll be a little bit confused, and ask her if it has something to do with the fact that you think Kenny Loggins is slightly better and she’ll throw one of your shoes at your face.

“I’m cheating on you!” she’ll shout as she stomps out the door, even though she isn’t. She’ll just want to make you feel small, and she’ll succeed.

She’ll trudge outside the door thinking about your relationship, why she’s with you, and how much she’s willing to trade her own happiness for comfort. She’ll start smoking again while she’s out there and consider getting a tattoo, also.

You, you’ll just sit there as your pizza cools staring at the door as the candles shrink under their own flames. You’ll sit there staring until the power flickers back on around you and you see the clock.

It will read 10:21. Your relationship will have lasted a whole three hours without television. So the two of you technically did, briefly, sustain your “love” without the intellectual war crime that is CSI.

Congratulations on Talking About Bands!