Bill Evans plays in the background. Sunday At The Village Vanguard. Scott LaFaro is on bass, and Paul Motian plays the drums. She yells at him just a bit above the music. The song playing is My Man’s Gone Now.

There are scratches on the wax; appropriate for its age. He purchased the record back in 1977 when he lived in New York. A tiny room with the toilet down the hall; a rusty shower. Or maybe it was mold. Memories fade.

His room had a mattress, a sink, French windows that opened up and let in sounds of nightlife, and a record player he bought at a used shop over on 7th Avenue. The tinny speaker was built into it. It got lost along the way.

But, not the Bill Evans album. He held on to it for thirty years. Until one night, it was gone. Broken in two.

The argument escalated. Fighting over money as always. Fighting about tough times. She, with her self-manicured nails and her blow dried hair. Looking every bit like a pinup girl from the 70s. The ones in bikinis hanging on boys’ walls in the suburbs. She always questioned why she was with him. Always thought she could do better. And he believed deep down inside that she could.

I’m leaving, she said.

There’s never enough for you. Is there?

I guess not.

I guess not.

She placed her arms around his fat neck. Kissed him on the lips. This is goodbye, Charlie. 

Fine.

Fine? 

Fine.

You’re not going to fight for me?

Why should I? You don’t even like Bill Evans. Never did.

And with that, the record  was broken. Thirty years of Bill Evans down the drain. Gone. Never to be replaced.

Goodbye Charlie.