Holes in time

The valet enters the black BMW, shuts the door and turns the key. The engine fires up, the orange lights on the dashboard greet him, and the stereo turns on. He picks up where I have left off.

Led Zeppelin, Kashmir.

There is no lead in. No crescendo. It begins right in the middle of a prolonged emotional Robert Plant wail. Epic and grand but only lasting a minute before he shifts into park and abruptly turns the key shutting off the car. The music ends.

This scenario is played out over and over again throughout the day. Brief drives in a myriad of cars. Snippets of rock, and rap, and R&B, and NPR, and Sports, and inane morning shows, and occasionally a little classical or jazz. All jumbled together one after another. The valet collects them all, like the keys in his cabinet dangling on hooks in orderly rows and columns.

Tomorrow morning I will get in the car and I will pick up where the valet has left off - but it will never be where I have left off. Entire minutes of the music go missing. And it feels like little gaps in my life. Holes in time.

Like a record.

Skipping.