by Jacquie Gee
Oh, no you don’t!
I rise.
Monitors bleep and scream.
I’m across the room in seconds, abandoning my tea for the record player in the corner of the room. “It’s a relic from the late seventies, but it still works.” I knock on the lid of the stereo, drawing Jules’ attention my way, away from Edgar’s antics, and shoot him a quick look of warning. “There’s not much in the way of music selection, but I did find one good one." I hold it up, then flip the switch and load up the arm with vinyl. "You like Ray Charles?" I ask as the disc of wax drops down the post into place. The arm lifts and I help swing it over, assisting the needle into the groove.
The record crackles to life, staticky at first, but then melody begins to roll—a foggy undercurrent of melancholy voices swaying to the brush of the cymbals, and the incomparable passionate voice of Ray Charles cuts in.
You Don’t Know Me.
“Seems apropos, doesn’t it? Considering?” I tease, turn back to Jules.
“Very.” She grins as I reach for her hand, and Ray Charles providing me with just the perfect line to draw her out onto our makeshift dance floor. You give your hand to me…
And on it goes.
Jules threads her fingers through mine and I yank her into my arms, delighting in her surprised laughter. Pressing my hand to the small of her back, we spiral about the floor.
