the musky smell of the old records hangs in the air of the large room. years of isolation from loving eyes and tender touches. the soft edges of the sleeves are all but worn away. phil collins, stryper, def leppard.
rows upon rows of little melodies. i wander through the aisles, fascinated. after hours of writing and composing, after deals made and cash exchanged, this is the result. flat discs with many grooves, harmonious sounds etched into plastic. donna summer, the rolling stones, bread.
the songs of the past play in my head. i hum to myself as i finger the tops of the records. sinatra, neil diamond, the ramones.
i smile wistfully, filled with a strange sense of nostalgia. i have not experienced these times. this was the music of my youth by choice, not by prevalence. aerosmith, dean martin, prince.
whirling myself in circles as the music plays louder, i laugh. how many times has this moment happened?
i take a deep breath as i inspect the cover art of a 70s easy listening album. gingerly removing the record from its sleeve, i close my eyes. the smell of dust and mothballs is present - but something else lingers in the background. a gentle trace of of sweetness floats among the shelves.
as i ponder what the sweet scent might be, i sighed in contentment. the colorful edges of the sleeves, combined with the lovely sounds elicited from reading the titles, soothed me.
i would never know what that sweet scent was. but that was okay. it was part of the allure.
