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It’s been about three months since things ended， and for the most part， I try to avoid the 1）remnants of him. I threw out his old toothbrush. I don’t go to our favorite bar where we had our first date. When I have to be in his neighborhood， I refuse to walk down his street. I don’t listen to the radio on Sundays， because that’s something we would do together and now the sound of our favorite announcer’s voice 2）makes my skin crawl.
But for some reason， I just can’t delete this one digital file. This stupid reminder of a thing I don’t even remember in the first place.
We spent our last weekend wandering around the city. It was one of those glorious spring weekends where you finally start to let yourself believe that the warmer weather is here to stay. I remember standing at the crosswalk on Prince Street waiting for the light to change， his arms wrapping around me like a heavy knit wool sweater in winter. We walked all the way to Brooklyn Bridge Park and sat opposite the sparkling East River， laughing at the toddlers with their 3）faux hawks and their leather high tops. We went to a concert. We stopped into a comedy show. We vowed to do more and to see more. We found that amazing bar where the taps had metal pipes for handles. I can still taste that dark， chocolaty beer with just a hint of cherry swirling on my tongue.
I’ve heard people say that when you’re about to die， your whole life flashes before your eyes. But this death was of a thing， not a person. And the memories rushing in were what I was left with that following Saturday afternoon when he walked into my apartment， kissed me on the mouth， sat me down on my bed， and with my hands in his， told me it was over.
It was more than I could comprehend. Some days， it still is. I find myself searching for him on the sidewalk and in my mind. And once I start 4）rummaging through those old microfilms of memory， it’s hard to make myself stop.
Suddenly， I remember the recording.
I make documentary-style radio pieces， and am prone to recording sound a lot—not always with fancy gear， sometimes just with an app on my phone. And I record a lot， always with an ambitious plan that one day I’ll do something with it. I usually don’t. But for me， to hit record is to feel alive， to be moved to capture the times and places when I am happy and inspired—so much so that I want to take the moment home with me， so that later， I can go through my cherished collections like shiny pebbles brought home from the playground. A few weeks before the big breakup， I decided to 5）take the plunge and upgrade the operating system on my iPhone. I was annoyed because this meant clearing 3 6）gigabytes of valuable podcast space， or the other sound files I had cluttering the corners—the mother I’d followed through the European gallery at the 7）Met， trying to discuss art theory with her young daughters in front of 8）Monets and 9）Renoirs； a particularly beautiful 10）busker on the 2 train； a 11）snippet of conversation， mostly filled with laughter， from my grandfather’s birthday celebration last year （it was a little late， the family was a little drunk）. None of these files are recorded particularly well—you can barely hear the action above the jumbled 12）ambient noise and the sound that clumsy fingers， surprised to be recording， make when they grip a microphone. Call me sentimental， call me a sound hoarder， but these little bundles of ones and zeros bring a smile to my face.
So I’m carefully combing through my portable catalogue to determine what I could live without， and that’s how I found it： 34 seconds of something called “drew dog beach.” I pressed play.
What you’re hearing might not sound like much， but for me， listening to this clip transports me to a place with weight and dimension and color. It’s mostly me trying to get my microphone-shy boyfriend to talk， to tell me what he feels in this moment when the relationship is new and everything seems right and beautiful. He’s laughing at me because I’m being ridiculous， although he was always a man of few， well-chosen words. And then there’s the kiss. He probably kisses me to get me to stop trying to make him talk. I guess it worked， because that’s where the recording cuts off. But it’s a sound so sweet， and so genuine. In an instant， I smell saltwater， grass， and his shampoo. I feel skin and the late summer air and the feeling of not being afraid to be completely myself in front of someone I care about.
But the thing is； I have absolutely no memory of this even happening. I don’t remember taking this recording. I don’t remember being there. Drew dog beach？ I gave it that name， but I have no idea what it means. The file has a date on it， but I wouldn’t have needed that to know it’s a scene from early in our relationship. It was late summer and Drew and I would take night walks along the Hudson， the sound of crickets 13）reverberating all the way to the 14）Palisades. It was a habit that started on our first date. We left the bar， dizzy on sour ale and nerves， and headed for the water， fumbling at expressing how we were feeling with our words and our limbs. But something stuck， and things were good. Our river walks continued through the winter. We’d stand on the pier， huddled in down， watching drifts of snow make rippling patterns in the wind before disappearing off the ledge and into the angry， gray water. It’s hard to think of now， but it was a happy time. So I remember what it felt like to be in those 34 seconds of sound. But the actual experience is gone from my memory. And to listen to it， to be reminded of something I lost and miss， is 15）agony.
I’ve been grasping at 16）shreds of what I do recall， trying to solve the mystery of how this sound bite even exists. Lately my line of questioning has turned from how do I have it to why am I saving it. Is this recording a gift， a souvenir of a time that I loved？ Or is it there to remind me that I’m still sad？ If I delete it， will I be free of this memory that I don’t actually have？
Until I decide， it sits on my phone， a handprint in cement， evidence that we existed. Maybe one day I will be brave enough to erase it， the cement melting into sand， the handprint blurring in the rising tide.
恋情告终，一切尘埃落定至今已近三个月。我做过很多努力，想要消除他留下的痕迹。我扔掉了他的旧牙刷，不去我们最爱的酒吧——那里是我们第一次约会的地方。必须去他居住的那片街区时，我避免走过他所住的那条街道。我不在周日听广播，因为那是我们过去常常一起做的事，而如今，我俩最喜欢的那个主持的嗓音让我毛骨悚然。
但是出于某种原因，我就是无法做到将这段手机中的录音删掉。一开始，我甚至对其毫无印象，但它却成为了一个讨厌的提醒，让我回忆起那件事。
那是我们在一起的最后一个周末，当时我俩就在这个城市漫步。那是某个明媚的春日周末，那种时候，你终于开始相信天气确实要转暖，不会再冷起来了。我记得，当时站在王子街的人行横道上，等着交通灯转换颜色，他的手臂环抱着我，就像冬日里一件厚重的羊毛针织衫。我们一路走到布鲁克林大桥公园，然后坐在波光粼粼的东河对面，被蹒跚学步的孩子们头上的仿莫霍克发型和高帮皮靴逗得哈哈大笑。我们去看了一场音乐会，驻足观看了一个喜剧表演。我们发誓要做更多的事情，看更多的东西。我们发现了一家令人惊艳的酒吧，那里的龙头把手是用金属管子做的。现在我还能感觉到那浓稠的巧克力味啤酒，带着一丝樱桃香停留在舌尖上的味道。
我曾听过有人说，人临死前的那一瞬间，整个人生会匆匆闪过眼前。但此刻的逝去不是人，而是情事。纷涌而至的是在那之后的周六下午，在我被遗弃后留给我的那一切。那天，他走进我的公寓，亲吻我的双唇，让我坐在床边，抓住我的双手，然后告诉我说一切都结束了。
那时他的话超出了我的理解能力。如今有些时候，仍然如是。我发现自己在找寻他的身影，在人行道上，以及脑海之中。一旦开始四处翻找那些记录着回忆的旧缩影胶卷，我就很难让自己停下来。
突然间，我想起了这段录音。
我制作纪实风格的广播片段，常常忍不住录下声音片段——未必是用什么高级器材，有时候仅仅是用一个手机应用程序。我录了很多，暗暗藏着雄心壮志，期望有一天能用这些声音来做点什么。我通常没有这么做。但是对我而言，按下录音键就是去感受自己真切地活着，为捕捉那些我感到快乐和怀有灵感的时间和地点而感动——这些感受强烈到让我想将这些瞬间带回家，以便日后能够重温这些宝贵的收藏，就像是从运动场上带回家的闪亮小石头一般。
这次痛彻心扉的分手发生之前的几周，我决定冒险一试，将我的苹果手机上的操作系统升级。这是件恼人的事，因为这意味着得从宝贵的播客空间，或是其它随意存放在角落里的声音文件中清理出3个G——在大都会艺术博物馆欧洲画廊里我一直尾随的那位母亲，她在莫奈和雷诺阿的作品前尝试着与她年轻的女儿们交流美学；地铁2号线列车上一个特别漂亮的街头艺人；一小段大多充斥着欢笑声的对话片段，录制于我祖父去年的生日会上（当时天色有点晚了，一家人都醺醺欲醉）。这些片段没有哪个是录得特别好的——勉强才能从混乱的噪音中听得出发生了什么事，还有抓话筒时那些笨拙的手指擦过听筒的杂音，也被不小心录了进去。你可以笑我多愁善感，或者说我有声音囤积癖，但是这些由一串串0和1编码而成的小片段总能让我露出笑颜。 于是，我仔细梳理了一番随身目录，想看看哪些是我可以舍弃的，然后我找到了这个：一段历时34秒的录音，命名为“德鲁狗狗海滩”。我按下了播放键。
也许对你来说，这段录音听起来没什么，但是对我而言，聆听这段声音将我带回了一个地方，有分量有维度有色彩。录音里面大多是我在让那个羞于面对话筒的男朋友发言，让他诉说那一刻自己的感受，那时候我俩刚开始恋爱，一切似乎都那么顺利，那么美好。他在笑话我滑稽的模样，尽管他一直是那种少言寡语、字斟句酌的人。然后是亲吻的声音。他很可能是以这个吻来让我停下来，不再逗他说话。我猜那个吻奏效了，因为录音到此戛然而止。但是这段录音如此甜蜜，如此真实。刹那间，我嗅到了海水、草地，还有他洗发水的味道。我感受到皮肤的碰触、夏末的空气，还有那种不惧怕在某个我在乎的人面前完全呈现自我的感觉。
但是情况是，我甚至对这件事全无印象。我不记得曾录过这段录音，也不记得曾去过那个地方。德鲁狗狗海滩？我给它取了这个名字，但是不知道这是什么意思。这个文件上标有时间，但是无需查看时间，我就能知道这是在我们恋爱初期发生的一段场景。那是夏末时候，德鲁和我会在晚上沿着哈德逊河边散步，去往帕利塞兹州际公园的一路上，蟋蟀的叫声此起彼伏。这个漫步的习惯，从我们第一次约会就开始了。我们离开酒吧，带着喝完酸啤酒的微醺，走向河边的路上，拙劣地用语言和肢体表达着彼此的感受。
但有些事就停顿在了这里，一切都好。我们的沿河漫步持续了整个冬天。我们站在码头上，依偎着一起向下走，看着雪花在风中飘落翻飞，然后消失在岩壁之下，落向狂怒的灰色水流。现在想起来十分困难，但是那段时光确实非常快乐。所以我记得在那34秒的声音中所能感受的一切，但那段真实的经历却回忆不起来了。聆听这段录音，然后被迫回忆起那些我已经遗忘、失去的东西，是件十分痛苦的事。
我一直努力想要抓住脑海里确实能够回忆起来的那些碎片，尝试着解开谜团，搞清楚这段录音片段到底是如何产生的。近来，我的一系列疑问已经从我是如何把它录下来，转变成了为何我要保存它。这份录音是一份礼物吗？一份我所钟爱的一段时光的纪念品？或者它的存在是要提醒我，我的悲伤依旧？如果把它删掉，我能否从这段我根本记不起的回忆中解脱出来呢？
在我做下任何决定之前，它就那样留存在我的手机里，像是一个结实的水泥手印，一个我们存在过的证据。也许有一天我会有足够的勇气把它删掉，那时候水泥就会融化成沙子，手印就会被上涨的潮水冲刷得模糊斑驳。
But for some reason， I just can’t delete this one digital file. This stupid reminder of a thing I don’t even remember in the first place.
We spent our last weekend wandering around the city. It was one of those glorious spring weekends where you finally start to let yourself believe that the warmer weather is here to stay. I remember standing at the crosswalk on Prince Street waiting for the light to change， his arms wrapping around me like a heavy knit wool sweater in winter. We walked all the way to Brooklyn Bridge Park and sat opposite the sparkling East River， laughing at the toddlers with their 3）faux hawks and their leather high tops. We went to a concert. We stopped into a comedy show. We vowed to do more and to see more. We found that amazing bar where the taps had metal pipes for handles. I can still taste that dark， chocolaty beer with just a hint of cherry swirling on my tongue.
I’ve heard people say that when you’re about to die， your whole life flashes before your eyes. But this death was of a thing， not a person. And the memories rushing in were what I was left with that following Saturday afternoon when he walked into my apartment， kissed me on the mouth， sat me down on my bed， and with my hands in his， told me it was over.
It was more than I could comprehend. Some days， it still is. I find myself searching for him on the sidewalk and in my mind. And once I start 4）rummaging through those old microfilms of memory， it’s hard to make myself stop.
Suddenly， I remember the recording.
I make documentary-style radio pieces， and am prone to recording sound a lot—not always with fancy gear， sometimes just with an app on my phone. And I record a lot， always with an ambitious plan that one day I’ll do something with it. I usually don’t. But for me， to hit record is to feel alive， to be moved to capture the times and places when I am happy and inspired—so much so that I want to take the moment home with me， so that later， I can go through my cherished collections like shiny pebbles brought home from the playground. A few weeks before the big breakup， I decided to 5）take the plunge and upgrade the operating system on my iPhone. I was annoyed because this meant clearing 3 6）gigabytes of valuable podcast space， or the other sound files I had cluttering the corners—the mother I’d followed through the European gallery at the 7）Met， trying to discuss art theory with her young daughters in front of 8）Monets and 9）Renoirs； a particularly beautiful 10）busker on the 2 train； a 11）snippet of conversation， mostly filled with laughter， from my grandfather’s birthday celebration last year （it was a little late， the family was a little drunk）. None of these files are recorded particularly well—you can barely hear the action above the jumbled 12）ambient noise and the sound that clumsy fingers， surprised to be recording， make when they grip a microphone. Call me sentimental， call me a sound hoarder， but these little bundles of ones and zeros bring a smile to my face.
So I’m carefully combing through my portable catalogue to determine what I could live without， and that’s how I found it： 34 seconds of something called “drew dog beach.” I pressed play.
What you’re hearing might not sound like much， but for me， listening to this clip transports me to a place with weight and dimension and color. It’s mostly me trying to get my microphone-shy boyfriend to talk， to tell me what he feels in this moment when the relationship is new and everything seems right and beautiful. He’s laughing at me because I’m being ridiculous， although he was always a man of few， well-chosen words. And then there’s the kiss. He probably kisses me to get me to stop trying to make him talk. I guess it worked， because that’s where the recording cuts off. But it’s a sound so sweet， and so genuine. In an instant， I smell saltwater， grass， and his shampoo. I feel skin and the late summer air and the feeling of not being afraid to be completely myself in front of someone I care about.
But the thing is； I have absolutely no memory of this even happening. I don’t remember taking this recording. I don’t remember being there. Drew dog beach？ I gave it that name， but I have no idea what it means. The file has a date on it， but I wouldn’t have needed that to know it’s a scene from early in our relationship. It was late summer and Drew and I would take night walks along the Hudson， the sound of crickets 13）reverberating all the way to the 14）Palisades. It was a habit that started on our first date. We left the bar， dizzy on sour ale and nerves， and headed for the water， fumbling at expressing how we were feeling with our words and our limbs. But something stuck， and things were good. Our river walks continued through the winter. We’d stand on the pier， huddled in down， watching drifts of snow make rippling patterns in the wind before disappearing off the ledge and into the angry， gray water. It’s hard to think of now， but it was a happy time. So I remember what it felt like to be in those 34 seconds of sound. But the actual experience is gone from my memory. And to listen to it， to be reminded of something I lost and miss， is 15）agony.
I’ve been grasping at 16）shreds of what I do recall， trying to solve the mystery of how this sound bite even exists. Lately my line of questioning has turned from how do I have it to why am I saving it. Is this recording a gift， a souvenir of a time that I loved？ Or is it there to remind me that I’m still sad？ If I delete it， will I be free of this memory that I don’t actually have？
Until I decide， it sits on my phone， a handprint in cement， evidence that we existed. Maybe one day I will be brave enough to erase it， the cement melting into sand， the handprint blurring in the rising tide.
恋情告终，一切尘埃落定至今已近三个月。我做过很多努力，想要消除他留下的痕迹。我扔掉了他的旧牙刷，不去我们最爱的酒吧——那里是我们第一次约会的地方。必须去他居住的那片街区时，我避免走过他所住的那条街道。我不在周日听广播，因为那是我们过去常常一起做的事，而如今，我俩最喜欢的那个主持的嗓音让我毛骨悚然。
但是出于某种原因，我就是无法做到将这段手机中的录音删掉。一开始，我甚至对其毫无印象，但它却成为了一个讨厌的提醒，让我回忆起那件事。
那是我们在一起的最后一个周末，当时我俩就在这个城市漫步。那是某个明媚的春日周末，那种时候，你终于开始相信天气确实要转暖，不会再冷起来了。我记得，当时站在王子街的人行横道上，等着交通灯转换颜色，他的手臂环抱着我，就像冬日里一件厚重的羊毛针织衫。我们一路走到布鲁克林大桥公园，然后坐在波光粼粼的东河对面，被蹒跚学步的孩子们头上的仿莫霍克发型和高帮皮靴逗得哈哈大笑。我们去看了一场音乐会，驻足观看了一个喜剧表演。我们发誓要做更多的事情，看更多的东西。我们发现了一家令人惊艳的酒吧，那里的龙头把手是用金属管子做的。现在我还能感觉到那浓稠的巧克力味啤酒，带着一丝樱桃香停留在舌尖上的味道。
我曾听过有人说，人临死前的那一瞬间，整个人生会匆匆闪过眼前。但此刻的逝去不是人，而是情事。纷涌而至的是在那之后的周六下午，在我被遗弃后留给我的那一切。那天，他走进我的公寓，亲吻我的双唇，让我坐在床边，抓住我的双手，然后告诉我说一切都结束了。
那时他的话超出了我的理解能力。如今有些时候，仍然如是。我发现自己在找寻他的身影，在人行道上，以及脑海之中。一旦开始四处翻找那些记录着回忆的旧缩影胶卷，我就很难让自己停下来。
突然间，我想起了这段录音。
我制作纪实风格的广播片段，常常忍不住录下声音片段——未必是用什么高级器材，有时候仅仅是用一个手机应用程序。我录了很多，暗暗藏着雄心壮志，期望有一天能用这些声音来做点什么。我通常没有这么做。但是对我而言，按下录音键就是去感受自己真切地活着，为捕捉那些我感到快乐和怀有灵感的时间和地点而感动——这些感受强烈到让我想将这些瞬间带回家，以便日后能够重温这些宝贵的收藏，就像是从运动场上带回家的闪亮小石头一般。
这次痛彻心扉的分手发生之前的几周，我决定冒险一试，将我的苹果手机上的操作系统升级。这是件恼人的事，因为这意味着得从宝贵的播客空间，或是其它随意存放在角落里的声音文件中清理出3个G——在大都会艺术博物馆欧洲画廊里我一直尾随的那位母亲，她在莫奈和雷诺阿的作品前尝试着与她年轻的女儿们交流美学；地铁2号线列车上一个特别漂亮的街头艺人；一小段大多充斥着欢笑声的对话片段，录制于我祖父去年的生日会上（当时天色有点晚了，一家人都醺醺欲醉）。这些片段没有哪个是录得特别好的——勉强才能从混乱的噪音中听得出发生了什么事，还有抓话筒时那些笨拙的手指擦过听筒的杂音，也被不小心录了进去。你可以笑我多愁善感，或者说我有声音囤积癖，但是这些由一串串0和1编码而成的小片段总能让我露出笑颜。 于是，我仔细梳理了一番随身目录，想看看哪些是我可以舍弃的，然后我找到了这个：一段历时34秒的录音，命名为“德鲁狗狗海滩”。我按下了播放键。
也许对你来说，这段录音听起来没什么，但是对我而言，聆听这段声音将我带回了一个地方，有分量有维度有色彩。录音里面大多是我在让那个羞于面对话筒的男朋友发言，让他诉说那一刻自己的感受，那时候我俩刚开始恋爱，一切似乎都那么顺利，那么美好。他在笑话我滑稽的模样，尽管他一直是那种少言寡语、字斟句酌的人。然后是亲吻的声音。他很可能是以这个吻来让我停下来，不再逗他说话。我猜那个吻奏效了，因为录音到此戛然而止。但是这段录音如此甜蜜，如此真实。刹那间，我嗅到了海水、草地，还有他洗发水的味道。我感受到皮肤的碰触、夏末的空气，还有那种不惧怕在某个我在乎的人面前完全呈现自我的感觉。
但是情况是，我甚至对这件事全无印象。我不记得曾录过这段录音，也不记得曾去过那个地方。德鲁狗狗海滩？我给它取了这个名字，但是不知道这是什么意思。这个文件上标有时间，但是无需查看时间，我就能知道这是在我们恋爱初期发生的一段场景。那是夏末时候，德鲁和我会在晚上沿着哈德逊河边散步，去往帕利塞兹州际公园的一路上，蟋蟀的叫声此起彼伏。这个漫步的习惯，从我们第一次约会就开始了。我们离开酒吧，带着喝完酸啤酒的微醺，走向河边的路上，拙劣地用语言和肢体表达着彼此的感受。
但有些事就停顿在了这里，一切都好。我们的沿河漫步持续了整个冬天。我们站在码头上，依偎着一起向下走，看着雪花在风中飘落翻飞，然后消失在岩壁之下，落向狂怒的灰色水流。现在想起来十分困难，但是那段时光确实非常快乐。所以我记得在那34秒的声音中所能感受的一切，但那段真实的经历却回忆不起来了。聆听这段录音，然后被迫回忆起那些我已经遗忘、失去的东西，是件十分痛苦的事。
我一直努力想要抓住脑海里确实能够回忆起来的那些碎片，尝试着解开谜团，搞清楚这段录音片段到底是如何产生的。近来，我的一系列疑问已经从我是如何把它录下来，转变成了为何我要保存它。这份录音是一份礼物吗？一份我所钟爱的一段时光的纪念品？或者它的存在是要提醒我，我的悲伤依旧？如果把它删掉，我能否从这段我根本记不起的回忆中解脱出来呢？
在我做下任何决定之前，它就那样留存在我的手机里，像是一个结实的水泥手印，一个我们存在过的证据。也许有一天我会有足够的勇气把它删掉，那时候水泥就会融化成沙子，手印就会被上涨的潮水冲刷得模糊斑驳。