He has no idea how hard this is.
For starters, it’s still far too soon to volunteer this. Also, I’m not drunk enough. I tried but
I stop staring at my records and start rifling through them. I’m struck with the urge to play Closer instead, but that’s for another time, maybe soon. My breath fogs a little, and I realise that it is as cold now as it was when I first pla- wait!
played this. I’ve found it. 12inch EP, minimal black-heavy sleeve design, black inner, sleek black vinyl, a swamp of black. Seeing the cover photo spins me. When I played it that day I held it up to her, admiring the beautiful shot, silently sharing where it was taking us. I slipped it down the side of the bed and curled around her
Fuck This is hard.
I click my stereo on, set the record on the turntable, side A, simply marked ‘Build’. The lid is dusty, thumbprints prevail, even noticing this a part of some ritual: She would lie out of sight while I played anything I had to share, and I suppose even now that is true, in a way.
This was special though. The memories I see as I lower the needle arm: Fireworks bursting in the school ground opposite, showering us with colour through the window; her shoulder, goose-pimply; her hand clutching mine to her hips; one candle; one pillow; rumpled clothes.
There is an impossibly long crackle of silence, and it begins.
This is hers, now.
(for Because We Cannot Lie All Night Together , December 2008, a ‘zine curated by Gareth Campesinos! for Los Campesinos! January 2009 Tour)