“Liz.” Equally just as pissed, I caught the case midair and quickly recognized it as Fleetwood Mac’s album The Dance. “What are you doing in here?” Without speaking a single word, she placed the disc in my stereo and began to flick through tracks before stopping at number twelve. Then, she held her finger on the fast-forward button, skipping through parts of the song, until releasing it at 3:38. The moment Stevie Nicks’s haunting voice filled the room, my ex-girlfriend turned the volume up to maximum capacity before spinning around to look at me. Again, she never uttered a single word, letting
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