"Your eyes... they're this unnatural icy blue. It's like you're starting straight into my soul whenever I look into them."
I don't look back and instead continue to shift through the stacks of albums my mother stored in the basement after my father passed away. When I yank out a record, the old paper encasing it is in is weathered from years of use. The vibrant red ink printed on black is no more than an unreadable blotch of washed out pink. It's definitely different from what I remembered from my childhood, but I know that it is still the same.
Brushing my fingers across its surface, I manage to swipe off a thick layer of collected dust. It comes off easily when I rub my fingers together but is still existent on the paper's surface. I gently blow at the cover, letting the dust fly off of it and into the air.
Hopping down from the stool I was using, I hold up the record in my hand and shake it. A smile lights up my face when I approach him.
"You said it wasn't fair that I can always see your soul, so I thought that maybe you would like to look into mine."
Soft brown eyes the color of melted chocolates look at me hesitantly. He cringes when he meets my eyes, but after countless times of experiencing his reaction, I no longer feel hurt. Well, too hurt.
"Come on."
I lead him upstairs again into the living room before sliding the record out of its case. Surprisingly, it was still in mint condition. There aren't any stray scratches or flaws that are apparent. Setting it on my vintage gramophone, I set the needle on the shallow grooves of the record and watch as it moves slowly in circles.
A deep note on the saxophone enters the air sweetly. Then, a soft jazz followed by the accompaniment of the piano continues on, filling the once silent room with music.
"What's this?" The little boy asks.
I grin, "Why, It's my soul."
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.