record scratches

“Hey grandpa, what’s this?”

“Hm?” Arthur grunts, leaning back on his armchair. His muscles ache as he adjusts to see his grandson in the other room, an instinctual groan leaving his lips at the mere motion. Getting old is a poison – one that he has long succumbed to. 

“What is it, Charlie? I can’t see.”

“I don’t know! It’s really dirty and has this weird horn thing coming out of it,” Charlie calls back. “I wonder if you blow on it–”

“Don’t blow on it!” Arthur shouts back, shaking his head. He shifts in his position, “Just bring it over to me.”

“Okay,” Charlie replies. There's a distasteful screech before he comes into focus, pushing the large object into the living room with his small hands. Arthur feels his muscles stiffen as he lays eyes on it, something in his eye twitching with a laden familiarity.

“That's a record player,” he says after a moment, his voice feeling detached from his body. “It’s what we old people used back in the day before all this new and fancy technology.”

Charlie's eyes widen. “D’ya think it’ll still work? This thing’s like, ancient.”

A chuckle escapes Arthur’s lips. “I highly doubt it. That thing barely worked when it was brand new.”

Charlie leans over, large brown eyes glistening with curiosity. He wraps his fingers around the ivory lever, cranking it in a circle. The motion elicits yet another raucous screech, the boys face falling in disappointment. “That's the worst sound I’ve ever heard!”

He stands up and runs off to the other room, leaving Arthur alone with the record player. For a few moments it’s just him and a hunk of aluminum, staring back at him with a patronizing glare. It’s uncanny – how it  looks the same as before– all but for a thick layer of dust that formed upon the top, obfuscating the unsightly green tint beneath. 

Charlotte always hated green. 

Suddenly – it starts to sing.

Stars shining' bright above you

Night breezes seem to whisper, "I love you"

The soft jazz fills the small apartment flat, embracing them as they embrace each other. Ella Fitzgerald's melodic voice dips and churns with the rhythm, caressing the air with a sickeningly-sweet fondle of joy. Charlotte’s hips sway in perfect accordance to the tune, as if she was born to exist in harmony with the music. Her dark curls bounce as she flips her head from side to side, eyes sparkling with a childlike delight. Arthur thinks he could hold her like this forever – arms draped around the dips of her waist, hands intertwined with soft palms and honey scented lips. 

Birds singin' in the sycamore tree

Dream a little dream of–

The record player cuts off with a harsh screech, disrupting the moment instantaneously. Charlotte jumps – an ‘oop’ leaving her lips. Arthur slips away from her grasp with a shake of his head. He bends over with an indignant hum as she inspects the record player, “this piece of junk never works right.”

“It’s fine,” Charlotte says dismissively. “Let's just keep dancing.”

“No,” Arthur says instinctively. “You deserve perfection. The best one on the market.”

Charlotte turns, lashes falling over her dark eyes. She stares back at him with a poised brow, opening her mouth as if to say something before closing it once more. She's not a foolish woman – Arthur is well aware. He’s also not a foolish man –  all too cognizant of the fact that he can’t spoil her like she deserves to be. That it’s his fault she must settle for a flea market record player and scratched vinyl, that their dancing must be confined to a 12 square-foot apartment with peeling wallpaper and the lingering scent of mildew and tobacco. 

And yet, she chooses to stay. 

“Let's worry about making rent first,” she says after a moment, a smile creeping onto her lips. She leans back in, grasping both of his hands within hers. “Then we can worry about the record player.” 

“Are you sure?” Arthur takes a step closer. “I don’t want it to ruin the moment.”

“You’re an idiot, you know that?” Charlotte says, that sweet, sweet smile plastered on her face. “The moment can never be ruined as long as we’re both here. Who cares about some silly scratches. It’s like us – perfectly, imperfect.”

“But–” 

Charlotte shakes her head, shutting him up with a peck on the lips. She turns back to the record player, cranking the lever and pressing play once more. And just like that, it's them and the music. The scratch lingers, but there's something within it that feels right. Sure, it’s nothing like the satin-smooth quality of the expensive vinyls that line the corner shops of main street, but there's something in the flea market clearance that feels like them.

And maybe that's enough.

Stars fadin' but I linger on, dear

Still cra—vin' your kiss

I'm longin' to lin–ger 'til dawn, dear

Just saying this–

Sweet dreams 'til sunbeams find you

Sweet dreams that leave all—all worries far behind you

The sound is still exactly the same. It's rough around the edges, cutting back and forth in jarring shifts. There's a persistent scratch that, back then, would have driven him nuts, but now, he finds its oddly soothing. There's something familiar about it, a presence that consumes his very being.

With that sentiment, a wave washes over him at once. It’s overwhelming, and uncontrollable. Her hands, her lips, her hips. Her skin, her scent. The way her breath always smelled like honey and morning dew, the way her eyes would sparkle like a million stars lighting up the cold, dark, universe. The way her ringlets would frame her face – highlighting her plump lips and wide, brown, childlike eyes – so full of wonder. 

The way she would dance like the song was the one existing in accordance to her. The way she would hold him and the entire weight of the universe would fall from his shoulders. The way she had embedded herself into his imperfections, laced her very essence into the scratches of his dirty, cheap, old record. 

But in your dreams, whatever they be

Dream a little dream of me—