Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 89978 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 450(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89978 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 450(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
I consider getting a radio for music, but I don’t want the commercials, news breaks, or even the weather forecast. So off to the store I go to buy a record player.
“What vinyl records do you have?” the gray-haired salesman asks, adjusting his round, black-framed glasses.
“None. Do you have any suggestions?”
“Absolutely. Vinyl albums are cool again. There’s been a huge resurgence in popularity, but if you ask me, they never went out of style.” He thumbs through a box of albums. “Definitely Zeppelin and The Beatles. Fleetwood Mac … Springsteen … The Rolling Stones … Hendrix … I’d get some Nirvana and throw in a little Maroon Five and Harry Styles for a nice mix.”
I stare at the stack of albums in his bony arms.
“If it’s too much to buy all at once—”
I shake my head. “I’ll take them. Do you have some good chill albums?”
“Sure. Let’s see …” Again, he thumbs through the albums. “How about Steely Dan and Sade?”
“I’ll trust you.”
He laughs. “You’ve got a great mix. What made you want to get into vinyl?”
I follow him to the register. “I’m doing a technology detox of sorts.”
“I love it.” He scans the albums, slides them into a bag, and sets the bag on the box with my new turntable while I dig out cash.
“Thanks,” I say.
“Enjoy.”
I’m unsure how to use a turntable, but there are instructions, so I’m good. When I get home, it only takes me five minutes to set it up, and The Beatles play “Can’t Buy Me Love.”
For the rest of the day, I listen to music, stare at the ceiling, and contemplate the meaning of life. I come up empty. So before bed, I break out my new journal and pen. Maybe writing my thoughts will help make sense of life.
I stare at the blank page and tap my pen on the first line until I have nothing more than a conglomerate of ink dots. Twenty minutes later, I have a drawing of a cat on a windowsill. What’s most shocking is I can draw. I’m good, really good. How did I not know this?
But now I’m tired, so I run a toothbrush over my teeth and crawl into bed. No sooner do I shut off the light and there’s a knock on the door. With a heavy sigh, I climb out of bed and head to the door, pulling a T-shirt over my head.
Scottie’s smile fades when she inspects me. “Were you in bed?” She glances at her watch. “It’s not even nine o’clock. Are you sick? Do you want me to come back another time? Is there anything I can do for you?”
“Do you want to come in and play something besides Twenty Questions?”
She steps inside, combing her fingers through her bangs before flipping them out of her eyes. A new mix of aromatherapy follows her. It’s heavy in citrus. I like it.
“I asked you four questions, not twenty. But I could easily think of another sixteen.”
I turn on the gold porcelain lamp in the living room. “I’m sure you could, but I’ll spare you. I was up early this morning,” (a lie), “so I decided to turn in early. You knocked on my door before I pulled the covers over my body. You didn’t wake me.”
Scottie turns in a slow circle, tugging on her long sleeves to ball her fists into them while inspecting my place. She’s divine. Always in comfy, flowing clothes. Face makeup-less save for a hint of lip gloss or probably some sort of homemade lip balm. And her smile is content and soothing, even when she’s concerned about me.
“I was going to see if you’ve had dinner yet, but I think I know that answer.”
I skipped dinner.
“I could eat.” Another lie. “What do you have in mind?”
“I don’t know. What do you have? Wait … whoa! Have you been listening to music on this?” She inspects my new turntable on the white media console below the TV, flipping through the small pile of records.
“I just got it today.”
Scottie eyes me like she’s seeing me for the first time. I understand. Every time I look in the mirror, I feel like I’m seeing the reflection of a stranger.
She pads her fuzzy-socked feet along the wood floor toward the fridge. Opening it, she chuckles. “You are definitely not the Price Milloy I remember.”
I bought a dozen bottles of local cold-pressed juice yesterday and filled my fridge with fruits and veggies.
“I guess we’re having pomegranate and…” she surveys the counter filled with fruit “…bananas.”
“Do you know how long it took me to deseed that pomegranate? What makes you think I’m willing to share it?”
She plucks two slate blue bowls from the floating shelf by the stove. “I’ll replace your deseeded pomegranate. I love deseeding them. It’s meditative, don’t you think?”
“You mean frustrating?” I hand her a spoon.