The phone was old. A relic. He pulled it from his glove compartment. Dusty. The cab smelled like the past. Like mildew and oil. And now, like her perfume. Faint. A dying flower.
He fumbled with the cord. Plugged it into the aux jack. His hands shook. Stupid.
She sat in the passenger seat. Not the back. Like a real person. Staring straight ahead at the rain-smeared windshield. The wipers were off. The world outside was a watercolor blur.
"You kept it," she said. Voice flat.
"Yeah."
"The song."
"Yeah."
He found the file. A digital ghost of a cassette tape. Hiss and all. He thumbed the screen. Hit play.
Silence first. Then the hiss. Then the piano.
That first note. A key in a lock. Rusty. Unused for decades.
He felt it in his teeth. In the roots.
She didn't move. Just breathed. In. Out.
The voice started. You are always gonna be my love…
A memory. Not a picture. A full-body sense. The rooftop gravel under his thighs. The cold metal of the Discman. Her shoulder against his. The shared wire. The static in the one free ear.
He could smell it. The cold. The mint. Not imagined. Remembered. A scent-memory so strong his eyes watered.
He glanced at her. A statue. A tear cut a clean line through her makeup. Just one. She didn't wipe it.
The song built. Strings swelling. A wave in a locked room.
He saw the train window. Her profile. Turning away.
He saw the pink envelope. On the storage locker floor. Return to Sender.
He saw the bridge. The water. The years like stains on a pylon.
This was it. The last dance. No touching. No moving. Just sitting in a shitty cab. Listening to a dead song on a broken phone. With the ghost between them in the stick shift.
Her hand was on the seat. Palm down. Near the gear shift.
His hand was on his knee.
The space between them was a continent.
The song hit the bridge. The part where the voice cracks. You will always be inside my heart…
She made a sound. A small gasp. Like something broke inside. A tiny, final fracture.
He reached over. Slow. His hand hovered over hers. Not touching. Just feeling the heat coming off her skin.
She turned her hand over. Palm up. An offering. Or a surrender.
He didn't take it. Just let his pinky finger rest against the side of her wrist. Like on the roof. A point of contact. A circuit completed.
Skin on skin.
It was warm. Real. A fifty-year-old woman's wrist. With a pulse he could feel. A steady, tired beat.
The song soared. A desperate, beautiful lie.
They stayed like that. Connected by a half-inch of skin. As the last chorus crashed over them. As the final piano notes rang out. Into the hiss. Then silence.
The cab was quiet. Just the drip of rain from the gutter outside.
He lifted his finger. The connection broke. A phantom ache remained.
She pulled her hand back. Placed it in her lap. Closed her fingers over the spot he'd touched. Like holding a dying ember.
"Okay," she whispered. To the silent phone. To the ghost. To him.
He unplugged the cord. The screen went dark.
The last dance was over. No bows. No applause. Just two people in a car. With the echo of a song they'd killed by listening to it.
She opened the door. Cold, wet air rushed in. A slap of reality.
She got out. Didn't look back.
He watched her walk away. A woman in a wrinkled blouse. Getting soaked. Heading toward the bright lights of the train station. Back to her life.
He put the phone back in the glove box. Shut it with a click.
He started the engine. The cab rattled to life.
He drove. The wipers cleared the glass. The world came back into focus. Sharp. Clear. And empty.
The song was just a song now. A sequence of notes. A memory of a memory.
The dance was done. The silence after was the loudest sound he'd ever heard.