You find the CD. The label reads “74:42.” Her handwriting—slanted, like her shoulders when she walks. The player strains as it spins. “You used to listen very carefully,” you say. She nods, as if replying, or perhaps just checking that the cup is set straight. While it plays, she peels a tangerine. You finish the last beer from the fridge. Before the first track ends, she says: that day I wore a black dress. You say, “That day, you had such a spark.” Smiles live in Track 1; the argument is in Track 3; Track 6 is a hurried phone call, the sound of the sea inside the handset.

52:00  They remember the same delayed train at the same time, and then say nothing.
38:00  She asks, “Did you really listen?” You don’t answer, because you’re looking for the remote.
14:00  She suddenly says: you know, I always thought seventy-four minutes was a metaphor. It isn’t—it’s the CD’s capacity limit.
05:32  She says: will you stop here? Then she lies down on the sofa and says something so soft and light—you. Outside the window, a child cries. It isn’t anyone’s fault: someone learned silence too late; someone learned letting go too early. After a faint beep, you turn the volume up one notch. It turns out not speaking is the hardest part.

Who loved whom? Who hated whom? Who left whom? What was hidden and what could not be hidden—sometimes joy arrives without exchange or price. Simply put, anything is possible. You hear fewer and fewer songs like this on the radio now: simple words, casually holding complicated truths. “You both really like this song.” The wind outside layers the radio’s static louder, but you still know—so long as this song plays, it keeps you as you were, intact.

For every right thing that was wrong. While liking lasts, before leaving. For every right thing that was wrong. While liking lasts, before leaving. Perhaps in an entire lifetime you only get one summer. On a day that nearly falls apart, you practice saying goodnight. In dreams, another summer grows—summer, then once more, winter.