“I don’t know what you want from me, Marie. I’ve nothing left to give you. Just leave me be.” “Come on. I haven’t taken anything that isn’t mine. I payed for that radio, so return it, okay? Please?” Exasperated, he hung up and put his head in his hands. A sob wracked his body, vibrating through his body until he felt as if he were on fire. He abruptly stood up, walking to the barren kitchen to grab a beer. God, even the fridge was empty. There was nothing left, nothing she hadn’t taken to her new house, with her new job, and their kids, and their dog and their furniture and even their food. Leaving him alone. Like a piece of rubbish. He made a mental note to hide the radio, so even if she did show her face at their family home - not family any more, huh. Why did she do this to him? What had he ever done that was wrong? Dull anger flashed behind his temples as he sipped his beer. Stomping up to the table, he turned the radio on, before sitting back and enjoying his drink. Technically, she did buy that radio, but it was such a long time ago that he could hardly see why she was so bothered about it. It was probably more of a metaphorical thing rather than her actually wanting it. Like a statement. Like a “I remember everything and I will take away everything until you have nothing left” type of statment. Just the type of stubborness that he married her for. He should’ve realised it’d blow up in his face eventually. The radio hummed a pretty tune as he watched the trees through the window. They swayed on beat, birds hopped on branches and squirrels scampered around looking for nuts. The radio host introduced the next song, a mesmerising jazz song he remembered from his youth. His father, long deceased now, used to cook such magnificant meals while listening to this. His memories tinted rose, of helping his father peel potatoes and his mother collecting flowers for the table. The aroma of sweet pea flowers in an ornate vase, set in the centre of the table, three steaming plates of food cooked with love and the gentle sway of music pouring from the radio. In the warm envelope of the memory and music, he drifted off to a peaceful slumber. In his dream, he had become his father, cooking for his two boys to the sweet music, Marie in his mothers place. The swayed to the music, all so deeply happy and content. The radio host spoke to him in rhyme, telling him of his future merged between the trumpets and bass. He awoke suddenly, the room dark and the radio off. He trudged up to his and Marie’s bedroom, now only his, to a small camp bed placed in the corner of the room. She had taken the bed. In the morning he woke to the birds tweeting and the deep pink and orange sunrise. His dream from before returned to him. Lying in the creaking camp bed with a sore back, he felt very lonely. The radio was still on when he wandered downstairs, and he frowned. In his sleep haze, he must’ve imagined it was off when he went up to bed. The radio sung out another tune from his past. A piano piece which his mother used to play. He smiled, and began creating his makeshift breakfast out of stale cereal and slightly mushy banana. His mother was a great pianist. She could play anything she heard, and replicate it almost identically. She only played when his father was at work, so he wouldn’t miss his father too much. The radio host chattered over the song, and to his ears it almost sounded gibberish. It brought the previous night’s dream to the front of his mind again. In the dream he remembered the radio host speaking in rhyme about the future. But it wasn’t to him or Marie, he remembered. He was his father in that dream, Marie his mother. It was his parents future, now their past. A cold shiver ran through his body, ice welling in his lungs and heart. He grimaced, shaking his head and reached to turn the radio off. The house was very silent without the radio. He switched it back on, and then switched it off again. Shaking, he stood up and went to the front door, pulling his shoes on to get some air. Of course he was feeling vulnerable, it was normal while going through a major life change, he reasoned with himself. Each foot scraped along the tarmac as he stumbled towards the shop. The sky darkened and the beginning of rain began to slip through the heavy clouds. He muttered curses under his breath as he began to jog towards the shop, now only a few meters away. The bell rang as he opened the shop door, the shopkeeper nodding his head in greeting. He shuffled towards the noisy fridges, looking for a cheap ready meal. At first he could barely make it out over the deep humming of the fridges, but as he stepped towards the counter to pay, he realised the shop radio was playing another song from his past. Gentle singing whispered through the speakers, barely audiable over the shop noises. The song was his and Marie’s song. The one that was playing when they first met, at one of his fathers parties. He’d never liked the song before, his father sometimes playing it for his mother, but when he saw Marie for the first time, her deep red hair almost glowing in the ambient light, he understood why his father played it for his mother. The shopkeeper had to snap his fingers to get his attention back, and he payed for his ready meal in a daze. He only realised he was home when he almost tripped over the curb of their - his - driveway. He opened the door to the sound of the radio, still playing his and Marie’s song. Peeling himself out of his rain soaked clothes, he turned off the radio and went upstairs to shower. After his shower, he sat scrunched up as small as he could make himself on the top step of the stairs. Somehow, the radio was on again. The radio host was talking, impossible to make out what from his place up on the stairs. He feared if he got closer to the radio, he would be able to understand what the radio host was saying. Eventually hunger was what pushed him to go downstairs and face the radio. The radio host was still talking. He strode into the kitchen and unplugged the entire radio, and then went about putting his ready meal in the microwave. He sat down, head in hands as the microwave hummed. It was stress, he told himself. Stress makes loads of stuff happen. At first he thought he was imagining it, almost indistinguishable under the micriwave hum, but it got louder and louder, until the microwave stopped and the radio was speaking again, the cable not even plugged in. He stood, staring at the unplugged cable, eyes almost unbelieving, ears most definetely unbelieving. The radio host spoke to him. It told him of how it had talked to his father, back in the day too. It told him such strange things in the most incredible rhymes. It rhymed and sung and it played and howled and it screamed and whispered and it shrieked and moaned and it hummed as he stood mesmerised, staring at the radio. A sense of futiliy enveloped him.