I was reading your writing, listening to the pain in your voices, and then, finally, I heard mine. It was faint at first, but as I moved closer, exploring my own sensation, the impact of my unsteady step caused a screech, the sound of an imaginary LP album skipping on an old wood-grained turntable of the 1970’s, jolting my eardrum. I twisted the knob in my head to the left, and turned the volume down, back to faint. It was better that way, I thought, not hearing this secret, painful message, embedded in the groove of the record, like the infamous “Paul is Dead” that Barry’s sister said you can only hear if you play a Beatles album backwards. All night, the air-conditioner blew on me, the icy breathe of a spiteful Nordic God, and I hummed to myself, avoiding any thought about my marriage.