the record player

He kept the record player, broken though it was. He couldn’t let it go.

In the midst of packing he stopped, carefully clearing it of dust. He ran his fingers over it, down the arm and across the table. He didn’t need to close his eyes to be remember that summer.

He could feel the heat of it, the dampness on his skin, an unavoidable discomfort for weeks on end. Far away, the sounds of a restless city living in between thunderstorms. He could still feel his lover’s fingers cool across his skin and always, always the sounds of Paul Simon, John Lennon, Neil Young cutting clear through everything else. Album after album, the days punctuated only by the static and staccato of the needle at the end of a side

But summer had melted itself away, and nearly everything with it, leaving only responsibility and reparations. But not regret. Not that summer.

The record player was all that remained. As long as he had it, that summer was still his.

sent February 2013

back to story archive | previous | next