@laughremixsquad

3 weeks ago

It was a sweltering night in mid-1983, the kind of sticky Miami evening where the ocean breeze did little to cool the charged air of South Beach. I found myself in a dimly lit, smoke-filled club, the scent of salt and cigarettes mingling in a heady mix that could only spell out a night to remember. The dance floor was pulsating with the latest hits, and when "Billie Jean" by Michael Jackson came on, the bass was so crisp it cut through the haze like a knife—thanks to the club’s new gadget, a Sony CD Player. The sound was a revelation, clearer than any cassette tape I'd ever heard. I was mesmerized, leaning over the bar to get a closer look at this sleek, futuristic machine that promised to change how we listened to music forever. It was then that she caught my eye—a vision, really, leaning casually against the bar with a drink in hand, almost as radiant as the reflection off the CD player's metallic surface. Her laugh was light, almost melodic, much like the laser precision with which the CD player transitioned between tracks. We got to talking, though I admit my gaze kept shifting between her bright eyes and the glint of the CD player as it spun tracks effortlessly. She told me her name, which I promptly forgot, and laughed when I confessed my split admiration for her and the latest tech marvel. She didn’t seem to mind—maybe it was the novelty of the CD player, or perhaps it was the way the neon lights danced across her smile, making it hard to focus on which of the two was more captivating. Eventually, we decided to leave the throb of the club behind. She suggested we take the night back to her place, a suggestion I found as enticing as testing out her own CD collection. Back at her apartment, as we listened to more tracks, marveling at the absence of tape hiss and the clarity of the sound, I found myself increasingly drawn not just to the music, but to her—the way she moved, her easy laughter, the intelligent glint in her eye that promised conversations as engaging as the music was clear. It was a whirlwind from there. Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months. The Sony CD Player became a cornerstone of our time together, a symbol of the modernity and clarity that defined the early days of our relationship. As we listened to countless albums, dissecting each track and marveling at the technology that made such fidelity possible, I realized I was no longer sure where my fascination with the CD player ended and my love for her began. Years later, as we look back on that night, she teases me that I married her for her CD collection. Perhaps she isn’t entirely wrong. But every time I look at our old Sony CD Player, now a relic in a corner of our living room, I remember the night I fell in love twice—once with a piece of groundbreaking technology, and again, almost incidentally, with the woman who would become my wife. Even now, I’m not entirely sure which one was the music to my ears, and which was just a beautiful accompaniment.

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