Somebody always brought the box. It sat on a towel, or a wall, or the hood of a car, and whatever was playing became what everybody was doing.
The batteries never lasted. You'd hear it start to drag, everything pitching down a half step, and you'd shake the thing like that had ever worked. Then somebody would find an outlet and it was fine again.
Ink-line boombox parked in front of a striped sun in navy, teal, cerulean and red. Garment-dyed and relaxed, the way a tee feels before you've even washed it once.
You stayed out until the streetlights came on, and then a little past that.
