Stepping into a record store can be the second hardest thing to do when you are nursing a broken heart. Number one hardest thing to do when you are a sad lonely fuck in a record store is having to endure its repertoire of love songs while browsing. Every bloody wail, tortured notes and wrangled lyrics just stabs your heart over and over and over again.
I practically attained Level 10 of The Ultimate But Long Forgotten Art of Total Self-Control just standing there. Being whipped by spiked ropes continuously on the fresh raw wounds. It was invisible blood on the record store floor.
Math is hard.
It does, doesn’t it? It appeared in the Sunday papers couple of weeks ago. I’ve always enjoyed Foxtrot. Very lovable and geekishly clever. Oh, and I tried solving the math problem. I couldn’t.
That evening, the sun had cast a warm gold hue on everything it could lay its rays on. If I were to take a photo that day, it would have came out in natural sepia. We were walking to the bus stop which was out of the usual route because the regular one was under renovation. The crowd waiting at the bus stop faded into the background as we slowed to a spot amongst them. There was loud drilling but it is no longer as vivid as how I can picture you in my head now.
I was wearing a black top with dark blue jeans. You were in black too and carrying the bag you no longer use now. I asked if you would like to have dinner but you were on your way to church. It was Ash Wednesday, that’s why you were fasting. I remember expressing loud sympathy. I didn’t like the idea of you suffering in hunger then and even now. While I waited with you for your bus, I thought of dozens of reasons to get you to meet me after your mass so I could feed you. Come to think of it, I was rather cheeky then huh.
This year, things aren’t quite the same as how I would have imagined. Still, I hope you had a good Ash Wednesday. Goodnight.