and mine already knows all the words.
I want to ask which song he’d play if we were naked, kissing, fucking. While imagining his breath between my thighs just for putting Radiohead next to Amy.
“Your taste’s got whiplash.”
“Yeah… Lost a quarter of my collection to stilettos with anger issues.” He raises his palm, like—what’re you gonna do?But the frustration in his eyes says he’s not over it, still hearing the crunch of vinyl under heels. “Been rebuildin’ ever since.”
I slide to the last two albums in the pile.
Get a Grip and Permanent Vacation.
“Aerosmith’s my favorite.”
He wrestles with a smile as he settles in—feet wide, arms crossed—as if he’s got nowhere else to be but right here.
“Yeah? Gimme the song.”
He asks it, testing me. “Theonesong.”
“Angel.”
Just saying it shakes my chest
and hits someplace deep.
My grip tightens on the records as I stare down at them.
I don’t fight the sad smile forming.
“I would’ve sold my soul to hearAngellive.”
Steven Tyler injured his vocal cords,
so that dream’s off the table forever.
“The guitar riff in the intro?God—does something to me every time.” I motion to my whole upper body, like it answers for the way it hits my chest, my throat, my eyes, makes me want to fucking cry. “Guess I’ll have to catch him in the afterlife,” I sigh. “Heaven’s got a better sound system anyway.”
Andrew’s not smiling anymore.
“Angelin Heaven, huh.”
His voice dips. “Yeah… makes sense.”
His gaze knots with mine,
and air becomes harder to find.
Then his eyes drop back to the albums.
“Yeah, fair. Best song onthatalbum.
“But for me?”
His smile finds him again,
and he flicks the record.
“Gotta go with Crazy.”
