At the end of Jim Cartwright�s play �Road�, the characters put on an old record and their tableau world ceases for three minutes. They listen, in the dark, on the sofa, curtains closed, television silenced, to Otis Redding sing. She is in the front row, in the dark with them. She is rapt.

Where else?

She used her mother�s perfume, knowing it would be smelled upon her, knowing she was sacrificing her dinner for the sake of a moment of make-believe. At some point she would have her own perfume. She would smell scents in a shop, take testers, make a purchase and, later, be told that she was good enough to eat. And then she would be eaten, one mouthful at a time, by the man who waited up ahead for her, beyond the headlights of the here and now, standing still in the shadows but there, definitely there. Please God, let him be there in the future for her. Let her be smothered in perfume, covered with love, and never punished for it again.

Where else?

In the nightclub, and who would have thought it? The final song, her favourite. She grabs him. It�s my favourite song. What? It�s my favourite song. Let�s dance. My feet hurt. Please. I�m tired, okay? Please. I�m going. Fuck you. Fuck you. She couldn�t have a moment. Why did God let that song play, if that moment wasn�t for her? People are leaving the dance floor. They don�t like the song. They wanted Aerosmith instead. She walks on to the floor and turns to watch him go. She sways, on her own, slightly out of time. She puts her arms around her waist and dances, in defiance, with herself.

Where else?

Right now. You don�t listen with your hands. You can�t type what you hear. You�re weary of trying: and young girls do get weary, and middle aged women with small children do get weary, and old bats by the fire, they do get weary too. You�re listening to the song you love, and you can�t put it on a piece of paper. It flows like a river in the room; you�re afraid of getting that wet.

But here�s the horn section leading to the bridge, and here�s the voice that pleads with you, as it always does, as it will always do every time you reach for that record and let it kiss the back of your neck: try, Aliya. Try again. Try a little tenderness.

Aliya Whiteley was born in Ilfracombe, Devon in 1974, and currently lives in Germany. Stories of hers are available to read online at Dreamvirus, Shotsmag, Unlikely Stories, and Fragment. Her first novel, Mean Mode Median, was published in 2004 by bluechrome. To read Aliya�s story �Caterpillar� on the showcase section of this site, click here

© 2006 Laura Hird All rights reserved.