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.

The gleam.

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.

I disagree.
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