Lisa edges Aretha out of its sleeve. Chooses a track. Sings along to the chorus. R. E. S. P. E. C. T.

Colin picks Elvis. Then Hendrix.

Lisa remembers an Animals 7-inch EP. I’m Cryin’, Hear me Cryin’. Then Dusty. Scattered across the floor are picture disks, 12-inch disco singles. Even a couple of old 78s.

Colin spins The Kinks, The Beatles, The B52s. He starts a mental list of his favourite ‘The’ bands.

Lisa puts on Blondie, ‘In the Flesh’, while she undresses.

Three houses up the street, Colin’s got Leadbelly on. Irene Goodnight.

Sometimes it seems as if love just doesn’t know where to look.

Lisa and Colin. Alone again.

Naturally.

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