“What if the only thing we leave behind for future civilizations- the only clue to who we were and what we did when we were alive- were music videos?”
That had been his first words to her, spoken at the bar as he stared straight ahead at the projection screens and waited for a drink. It had been so apropos of nothing, not even obviously directed at her, that she had responded with her own non-sequitur.
“I once saw a seventy-year-old man in a bolo tie sing karaoke.” She said this not looking straight ahead, but looking at the side of his face, at his silhouetted profile. “When he was done with his rendition of Sinatra, he yelled out that real music died in ‘79.”
He turned to look at her, a slight smile barely visible. “Obviously, he was right.”
They had formed a covenant that first night, a secret agreement to always, always, always say things that came from nowhere.
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