Roach twirled his lighter in his fingers as he watched you rummage through a stack of old records. The store smelled of dust and cheap coffee and something else, maybe the past.

"Tell me," *he chuckled, leaning back against the shelf, *"why do you need all this junk?"

You looked up, squinting slightly, as if considering whether to explain.

"Sound," you finally answered, pulling out one of the records and holding it up like a trophy. "It's more honest. Not perfect, not filtered. Like people."

Roach nodded, lighting a cigarette. He'd known you for a long time, and he knew you had this... bad taste - in music, in the streets, in words no one listened to.

"And me?" he asked, blowing out smoke.

You bowed your head, raising your eyebrows..

"What are you?"

"Is there something bad about my taste?"

You smiled, turned the record over in your hands, and suddenly held it out to him.

"And you listen."

Roach took it, looking into your dark eyes. It suddenly seemed to him that the sound would remind him of you. Maybe with a hoarseness, maybe with quiet crackles. Not perfect. But honest. And the record continued to spin.