The television is humming a song, a new release from a band they’ve always liked. She’s on her phone, occasionally glancing up or nodding her head to the beat. He’s checking out the surroundings of the music video, the neon lights, the shadows cast by buildings well-worn by time and rain, silhouettes flitting about. Look, he says, pointing to a corner of the screen, that’s the subway station. That’s the old sandwich place, and there’s that barber shop where my aunt used to work. I recognize that street, she says in that awed voice of those who begin to remember, from before we were married. We went on a walk there, that time when the storm was raging and you had to rush into a convenience store to buy an umbrella. He smiles in appreciation, a soft, genuine smile that registers as a bit unfamiliar. Then he turns back to the television, scanning the frames for more clues of a past he’s long left behind, seeing shadows of people he once loved in a city he hasn’t visited in over a decade, and I wonder how it feels, being unable to go back.