The record player.

It was an old record player, the kind that played the subtle static in the background as it hummed the classic tunes of Billie Holiday. That became the center of his existence lately, coming home after a long tiring day at work, walking in at 11 pm sharp to this old run down bar in the middle of nowhere; the wooden chairs and tables falling apart at the seams, creaking under the weight of old age.

It must've been last week that he stumbled onto this place unknowingly. He was not particularly looking for anything, not consciously at least; he just happened to be drawn into this rundown bar, a place that no one wanted to go to. Maybe that was the attraction. The fact that everything about this place, the inconspicuous sign board that obstinately refused to attract customers, the cracked and chipped paint on the creaky swing doors that refused to look pretty or artistic in any way, the dust and cobwebs that stubbornly clung on despite having been wiped away a million times; all this that was seemingly designed by the invisible hand to ward off people inexplicably drew him in, so strong was his need to be somewhere where he was not wanted.

He remembered walking in to the bar, much to the surprise of the bartender, who seemed to be looking at him twice to verify if he was not a solicitor. Upon discovering he was a patron, the bartender looked almost disappointed, reluctantly asking, "What'll it be?"

When he had settled down on one of the worthless antiques that looked like chairs, it was love at first hear. The small record player, hiding in one corner of this resentful haven captured his heart like love captures the unsuspecting youth, still vulnerable, still unprepared to pay the price of the inevitable demise of a first love's naiveté.

He stayed till 2 am that first night.

And so it became a habit, or more accurately an obsession. When he was slaving at work, all he could think about was being there, relishing the heavenly sounds of Billie played by that essential record player, being the midst of all the other relics that had only the guise and half-heartedness of invitation. He was not welcome, not at all, but still, all he wanted to do was stay there. When there were no other sounds to interrupt his thoughts, he'd replay Holiday's psychologically remastered 'The very thought of you' complete with each endearing static, closing his eyes and sighing in genuine rapture.

And then, after work, that's when he'd make his way to the bar, sitting down at the exact same chair, and ordering the same neat whiskey, listening to the same song on loop, until the bartender had to switch off the electricity to shoo him away.

This went on for a week.

It seemed to be all going perfect until one day the Bartender gave him the worst possible news:

"I'm sorry mate, but someone bought out the establishment. I didn't think I'd find any customers here now, hell you're the first person who's come in since 2 years ago, and I wished there were more like you around, but the fact is, this place is a dump and I'm going to have clear it out by the end of the week for the new owners. I know how much you like it here, so if there's anything I can do just say it now buddy,"

There was only one thing he could think of. The record player stays. Let him come in until the end of the week to listen to it, that's all he wanted.

"Hell, I'll sell it to you buddy, you seem to really like it,"

But it wasn't the same, no. The record player belonged reluctantly to this place, as was everything else here.

He didn't tell the bartender that.

"Sure, have it your way. Enjoy."

Tuesday, change crept up on him. The old decorations were gone; the painting of the roses was replaced by its outline on the wall, the antique vases weren't where they were supposed to be. Wednesday, the bartender moved half the furniture, (though thankfully, not the half with his favorite table) and the place looked bare, only half as resentful as it used to be. By Thursday, the dust and cobwebs that decorated the walls of the place were gone, and Friday and Saturday breezed through, each time appearing less endearing than the day before.

On Sunday he walked in, and everything was gone, except his usual chair, table, and of course, the old record player.

The bartender looked at him, shook his head in a sympathetic gesture and went back to putting the glassware in moving boxes.

“You know, you’ve scratched my curiosity buddy. This place is a dump. What is it that you like about it so much?” he yelled from under the counter.

It’s just a place to go to, he replied.

The bartender stopped packing and looked up.

“Bullshit man. No one comes here cause it’s just a place to go to. Two minutes down this road, there’s a bar that’s overcrowded every night. No crappy record player, no dust and cobweb, no creaking crappy chairs and tables, just digital hardware and hot women all night long. That’s a place you go to. Not this one.”

The record player isn’t crappy.

The bartender shrugged his shoulders and went back to packing.

Four hours flew by, and before leaving he did something he had never done before; he stood up, and ran his hand by the side of the record player, lovingly feeling the smooth texture of the mahogany woodwork, the cool brass of the loudspeaker, as though saying his last goodbyes before finishing his whiskey and walking out.

Once outside, the abandoned, snowy pavement greeted him with a dark chill. He pulled the instrument out, and felt the cold steel against his hand, biting into his skin, but he didn’t care. Leveling the gun right below his left breast, he took a deep breath and pulled the trigger.

Inside, the sounds of Billie Holiday continued playing, the psychologically remastered 'The very thought of you' complete with each endearing static.

I’m living in a kind of daydream,
I’m happy as a king,
And foolish though it may seem,
To me that’s everything.