Diamonds.
The youngest version of myself used to spend his weekends skating across frigid lakes or skiing the iciest eastern mountains.
He would invariably end up at the same pizza parlor with the same jukebox that had been spitting out the same songs for eternities upon teenage eternities.
50 Ways To Leave Your Lover. I would dump all my extra allowance in the mouth of that machine, into the slot to sling the song onto repeat. Dancing alone, staring down at the worn-out red and white checkered linoleum.
No drum beat has ever beaten that initial drumbeat. Ever. In the world. And the sincerity of the verse contrasting with the ridiculousness of the chorus. A shuffle-disco that rests its head back onto the perfection of the original, unfailing beat.
These were before the days of playlists and frenetic dance-mixes. These were the hours when one song on repeat would be enough.
I walked into freezing rain tonight, blessed to see that it stuck to my shoes like watery diamonds.
Diamonds on the joyfully ragged soles of these shoes.