Deep Cuts

by Holly Brickley

“I think…” I cast my mind over the song we’d just heard, then over all the songs of the day, but the only line I could find was by Stevie Nicks, and so obvious I almost didn’t use it. “I think you’ve been afraid of changing because you’ve built your life around her.” His gaze dropped back onto me. “And same with her,” I added. He squeezed his eyes shut suddenly, hard, as if experiencing some sharp pain. His lashes wettened. “It’ll be okay,” I said quickly. “Time makes you bolder.”

The truth was, New York and Turn On the Bright Lights were so deeply connected to me that I could not form an opinion about one without forcing it to be true of the other. The album’s sound was dark but shiny, like Times Square. Living in New York made you feel heavy and lonely but full of promise, like listening to those songs.

A noisy mess of hooks clashed in my head: turn on the bright lights and bring it on home to me and our house, with two cats in the yard.

“The anchor’s stumbling. He thinks he’s dreaming.” Those were my lines. Joe’s eyes were closed, his forehead creased, shining. “The music doesn’t come. So I start cleaning.” Then the melodic shift: “The phone rings, but it’s always for her. Everything I do is for her.”