we split the records

We split the records on the living room floor on the last Sunday, two piles that started fair and stayed fair, which was the saddest part. Nobody fought for anything. He kept the blue album we bought in Lisbon and I let him, I kept the one we played every New Year and he let me, and the flat got emptier around us in that particular way where the echo arrives before the furniture has even gone.

At the door he hugged me like a full stop. I played my pile all winter, one record a night, and by spring I could listen to any of them without sitting down on the floor.