Two broken clocks striking the same second.
They could’ve missed. They almost did.
But the world bent just enough to make them happen.
And it all started that night at Type No. 45.
3 /I WANT YOU (SHE’S SO HEAVY)
THE BEATLES
// ALLISON - OCT 05, 8:43 PM - TYPE NO. 45 - EAST VILLAGE //
He’s standing by the vinyl section,
his back to me.
I should look away,
keep my eyes on anything but him,
like the magazine in my lap, the same sentence I've read three damn times.
But I don’t.
I sit here. For five minutes. Watching him.
His fingers trail slow over album spines,
as if they know how to make things weep.
He picks one up,
flips it over,
scans the back,
debating whether it’s worth keeping.
Sometimes, he tucks one under his arm.
Sometimes, he slides it back into place and moves on.
He’s got earbuds in, and he's singing low,
the words catching on the edge of a breath,
fading into the dusty buzz of the speaker,
where John Lennon’s guitar riff crawls on its knees through the room, every note wrapping around him, pleading.
And the rhythm of it?—
his voice,
the raw strings,
the distant heartbeat of the city outside?—
