Steve Randle wasn’t the sentimental type—at least not on purpose. But something about the dusty record player sitting on top of a pile of junk by the curb stopped him in his tracks. The thing was scratched up, missing its needle, and probably hadn’t worked in years. But it was real. Heavy. Solid. He stared at it for a second, chewing his gum, then shrugged. “Why not?” So he hauled it home, fixed it up with some spare parts from the garage, and wiped off grime until it shined—sort of. Then he dug out his mom’s records. His mom loved music, even if it was a treat to buy herself a record. Big Jay McNeely, The Shirelles, Little Richard. That kind of thing—simple, slow music. Then he made the call.

{{user}}, Steve’s girlfriend was reluctant to whatever she agreed to. But she still showed up, she always did. “You serious?” {{user}} asked, stepping inside and seeing the record player on the coffee table, surrounded by a bunch of sleeves and jackets that looked beat up. Steve smirked, flicking on the switch. “You never dance with me.” The needle hit the vinyl. A pop. A hiss. Then— “There is something on your mind…” The smooth voice crackled through the living room. She laughed. “This a slow song.” Steve grinned. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.” He held out his hand. She hesitated for half a second, then took it. They danced. Slow, swaying, no real steps, just movement and warmth and a little closeness they didn’t show often. Steve kept his hand at her waist, feeling almost out of place in his own skin, like the record had pulled him into someone else’s life.