She asks aloud to no one, really, but loud enough so that anyone in the office could hear her. "How can anyone dance to this music? It's just the same beat over and over..." The one guy who isn't in her department but shares her office is the one person with whom she can make eye contact while sitting at her desk.

He answers, "When you're rolling." He smiles and wears a suit and tie. He sells cars online, a new venture. That's why he stuck in the back with us losers in the body shop. He looks too old to know what he's saying, but he does. She has never rolled.

She comes home to lots of music. Racks and racks of it. While they're not categorized or labeled, she has the tapes and CD's in secret groups. Music good for chain smoking. Music reminiscent of the pot smoking days. Music from the aftermath of acid trips. Music from the isolation in cocaine. Aftermath music. Music for bike riding in the dark, thinking of him.

And her nights are so full of remembering that she barely remembers she still has tomorrow.

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