Writing Raw – Dead Cold

‘Mate, will you just settle on a station.’ Said Rob in frustration, as Mark pressed the tune button again.
     He’d been in work thirty seven minutes. It should have been fifty four, but alarm clocks and such binary measures of life had become insignificant since Anna left. He’d spent the whole time trying to find a song that didn’t remind him of her. He had had high hopes for the music, wishing each pulse would jolt away the pain, but it was just making him feel worse.
     That was the trouble with a life lived alongside someone else. Every significant moment, and thus the soundtrack to them all, was bound up with them. The song that was playing when they met, the song they used to sing around the house, that tune they heard every bloody night in Spain. She was the only person who also knew all the words to Spandau’s Ballet’s Gold, and he loved the way she used to come in from a sweaty gig and switch the radio to Classic FM to fall asleep to. Now he might never be able to listen to music again.
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