Side B Is Night

He listens to records only at two in the morning. Not on earphones, but through the speakers. When he shuts off every sound in the room and lowers the needle, a tick of surface noise reaches his ear first. That noise tells him the day's condition more precisely than the music does. Tonight is on the quiet side. As if every conversation he heard in the daytime had been erased, the needle runs through the innermost groove of side A. The sound of the arm lifting. Hands resting on his knees, he stays still for a few seconds. He doesn't pick the next song. There isn't a single lamp on in the room, only the light from the living room coming in, but that light through the narrow gap is enough. Choosing what he loves was always a nighttime thing. Day demands a choice; night waits. He flips the record and lowers the needle again. Not side A, but side B. Still in his clothes.