I open the door and fall back against it, the record clenched in my fingers.
I step, slow, then quick. Jump over to the player. My breath is short, shallow, I can't hear anything but the staccato gasps.
Gentle, I slip my finger into the opening, slide down; its plastic seal slinks off and I pull out its insides.
There is only one song on this side; that's how I know.
The player leaps to life under its display case, no videocameras or flash photography, thank you very much.
The needle touches down, pristine. Spin, spin, spin, and:
My heart skips when it does.
The bass awakens, and I have to sit down, this is everything I have ever wanted, I can do nothing but listen, and I don't remember to breathe until my brain tells my body that survival supersedes sound quality.