The Ropers
All the Time

Outside, it was a bitterly cold night. Fog, and bitter cold. Inside as well. And in my soul, it was even worse.
The desolation, the bitter serenity. The uniqueness of what had been and the unavailability of what could have been, what even today could become.

I was pacing along the perimeter of that room, unable to find peace. The house was barren. My only companion was an old gramophone, likely broken. I wondered how it must have felt. Motionless, indifferent to everything. I could flail, scream, and give voice to my suffering. It could not. I could have gone out if I had wanted to. I could have walked out through that door, out of that house, and out of my pain. If only I had wanted to. I might even have decided to end it all, perhaps crashing the car, solving every problem with one panacea. But it could not.

I had an old vinyl with me. "Old", so to speak. From 1995. I wasn't used to giving away classics.
I had gifted it to her not too many days before. Eleven. Because in the company of that record, ten years prior, I had spent a good part of my existence, without denying it to myself. I always carried it with me, and sometimes, regardless of the atmosphere or the wind that blew, I would play it. And it always played in the right way, adapting to any situation. I could listen to it for hours. Anywhere.
So golden, so direct, and so tremendously emotional. Melancholy and joyful rhythms found the right point of balance, the right harmony. An exemplary, impeccable record. Where sounds and melodies did not scream, leaving this privilege to the listener. Like the response of a disarming caress of the soul, relentlessly unveiling the essence of the self.
The timeless melody of "Drive" was a clear proof of it: never heard before, yet known forever. That dreamlike solemnity in the refrain of "Mystery Girl" and the verses of "Revolver". Tracks that would always unsettle my soul, every time. Then the paced "You Have a Light", which had always reminded me of the Smiths of "Headmaster Ritual". Exactly the Smiths, whom she liked so much.

I chose to give it to her because I believed it could speak to her about me. Make her see with my eyes.

I had that vinyl with me because it was that very night she decided to return it. As she was doing it, I thought she might have listened to one track for each day that went by without seeing her, like Pirandello's "Novelle per un anno". Eleven days had passed since the last time. Eleven endless songs. But she hadn’t listened to any of those songs. I placed it in her hands too late, unaware that she had already decided the fate of my future.
She handed it back to me and left without saying a word. Everything was so clear in that fog that asking for explanations would have made less sense than not doing so.

It had been ten years since I last listened to it. When I played it that night, it felt as if no time had passed. Joy no longer had her face. Pain, for forty-five fleeting minutes, was absent. The cold turned into a warm, mild breeze. And I was no longer the one shouting. I was happy. Happy for that gramophone, which was finally getting a weight off its heart.