45 RPM

She made me promise that I wouldn’t listen to certain records if we ever broke up. “They don’t belong to me or you, to us,” she’d said. “They belong to this moment. We can’t betray that.”

That was twenty years ago. Her funeral was last week. I told the wife I had to go back home, that an old friend died. I didn’t say more, but I think she knew. She’s a good woman, my wife.  Compassionate.

So I went and I stood there, in a crowd of people wearing black, and tried to hum a song I barely remembered.

Prompt court of the Daily Post.

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