Blurred, Impressionist-like dabs of sunlight reflected off the spinning vinyl record. Static cracking noise vibrated throughout the room as songs of the past came whispering through. And so, the vinyl record would spin and emit words that'd wrap themselves flawlessly around the instruments. Sunlight continued to reflect off the phonograph, and the noise sounded off throughout the house.
Gradually, hushed tones would invade as the music muted, and the needle would skim too hard over a scratched record. It'd break into the shiny vinyl, and stain thin lines with fresh, white cuts. The record itself would come to a halt; it's music and words would fade into screeching silence. Sometimes, the record went out with a burst; the words and the music became swiftly spun into one incoherent tangle of noise.
But, the friction between the scratched vinyl and the sharp needle would blend together; the fresh scratch on the vinyl would dim down the needle, but in turn, the record wouldn't spin with the same buoyancy it did before.
--
That was the day she stopped calling me. Yesterday, our apartment foundation struggled to cage in the voices of a million. Today, it struggled to release one whisper. There were not a million people in the apartment, but rather there were the voices of a million in two. Our words to each other held the same volume to another as a million people. We were fireworks sounding off, and all other voices were mumbling – some of waning interest and awe – as we exploded brilliantly in the sky. These days our voices didn't even contain half the volume of a million people, but it seemed rather I heard the volume of a million voices, but it was all blurred incoherency. Imagine sitting yourself everyday in a school cafeteria as chatter is buzzing off, and you'll envision what everyone's words were sounding to me. It wasn't like that yesterday; we talked in regular tones, and we didn't need microphones to amplify each other's voices. We heard each other in the silence. It's July right now; cheeks are fuming, and the sound of a fan is buzzing in my ear.
The day she stopped calling me was the consequence of a collection of mutual hurt. I had no desire to continue any friendship with her. Sometimes, she'd text me letters, and she'd always sign them with her name, as if I didn't remember it was her. When I asked her about it, she said when she didn't it felt as if there was no closure. "Without closure, there's no beginning." Well, I abruptly disconnected contact with her; I wasn't a fan of signing my name anywhere...I liked it to melt away into the forgotten recesses of the human mind. Because, as she said, without closure, there's no beginning. By doing this, it was easy to say there was no beginning.*
There was no end. There was never us. There was just me and her, you and I, her and me. Nothing more.
There was no beginning to us, or this. It just was or is. We'd play records throughout the week. We weren't like Hollywood couples that had a distinguished song and celebrated hourly anniversaries. We just played records – naming and picking new songs, and trying to philosophize life through the lens of other artists - getting lost in their music, and adapting their words to reality. But there's a reality outside that to focus on, and I decided I couldn't do it anymore. Because the vinyl records contained a charming, rustic quality; a quality associated with antiquity, one of history and an enchanting time long forgotten. It was to these records and songs that people went about their business then – in the peak of the music industry – they fell in love with, and sang to these songs and quoted and lived life by them. It was that charm that was in them for us. It was the charm that lured me into her. However, these records just echoed that... the past.
Like I said, there was never an us. Just me and her, and a few garage-worthy vinyl records I treated to dust. The needles were always expensive to repair, anyway. When the vinyl's quality started crumbling, it was difficult to restore; like her and me.
Months of waiting on her part finally faded through, and the passage of time allowed us indifference on both parts. I walked down the dimly lit streets at night with a calm, and I could gaze into eyes that held her color and intensity, and for once, not be reminded of her. Her name was another dead syllable on my tongue awaiting to be pronounced, but it got to the point I could see my cellphone and not be reminded of her.
We saw each other once after that day she stopped calling me. I don't remember how long it had because I had other preoccupations. That day was just another blank calendar day to me. She was smiling with dimples and a new spark of energy in her eyes, and she glanced at me without so much as an acknowledgment; another face in the crowd. Despite her words to me a few months before, where we both pleaded the uniqueness of another. But her indifference didn't stun me – I just nodded, and went on about my business because that's all you do in business. In business, you just nod when seeing each other, perhaps exchange a slight smirk or a wink of an eye or reflect upon an earlier encounter for a brief second, and go on. It's what we did because we didn't know what else to do. Oh, but she was hesitant in some way. Her previous walk suggested there was music everywhere, and she sprang in each step as if ready to break out in salsa. This walk introduced a timid, inquisitive nature of her - should I be in this ally at this time? I might of been imagining this because I looked at my watch, and I had something to pick up. Her name is Layne. Besides that, I couldn't forget that tomorrow I had to do laundry. It's very cold outside right now. That's such a strange name for a dog. By now, she's a faded shadow in the distance.
I think of earlier, where our voice had the volume of a cafeteria- I should just say was just as loud as a cafeteria because 'volume of a cafeteria' is what she would've said - I think of then, and how loud our voices were sounding off in that apartment, and how our minds were transparent to another, and then I remember it's Friday, and I should finish up my work. Yet, I remember we were dancing and our voices were too loud from laughing and it was too hot because it's a sultry, humid August and it's cramped in that apartment. I remember we were dancing and laughing and our voices were too loud, and then we were arguing, and our voices were too silent. Yet, we are dancing and laughing and our voices are too loud, and then again we are arguing, and our voices are too silent. Her name is Layne, but she's asking another question, and I answer with Ally. That was her name. At this time, the record jumbles to a halt, and the music and words fuse together into one incoherent blur. Suddenly, it's a new month, and we were laughing with our voices too loud, and we still are laughing and arguing, but her voice is way too loud. Her name is Beth, and she's asking another question, and her voice has the volume and coherency of a cafeteria in my mind. This time I don't have an answer, or at least one I want to share. I just know it's July; the fan is buzzing noisily in my ear, and this record silently fades out because it's apparent to the record that needle is too dim - too hazy - to allow it to keep spinning.
Because, the record spins on until time wears the vinyl thin. The song and the instruments fill the room with a powerful vivacity or a song of despair, but then it fades as times goes on, and the needle starts carving lines in the record, and the record doesn't sing the same way. And they're all just records now, and I keep carving lines into them. Some of them just fade quietly; others just go with a burst. I counted 3 new lines I added on her forehead, but in time, it just dims the needle.
Chris*