40 [Accidental Video]
[Rachel is lying on her bed, on her stomach, watching her record player carefully. A record is playing on it, though no sound is coming out just yet -- it seems to be between songs. Soon, though, the song begins, and while it is a bit scratchy, you can hear Barbra Streisand belting out her most famous number quite clearly.
Rachel is transfixed. Her fingers dig into her comforter and she leans forward, positively breathless, eyes wide as saucers. At the crescendo -- Hey, Mister Arnstein! Here I am! -- Rachel draws in a sharp breath, pushing herself up onto her hands, as if Barbra had just walked into her room. When the song is complete, Rachel is grinning a grin that could light a thousand suns and she swings her legs over the edge of her bed, slippered feet hitting the baseboard, as she carefully lifts the record in front of her.]
Funny Girl...
[Her brow furrows and she reaches for another album -- this one a lot more worn and patched in places, but she places it on the record player anyway, carefully adjusting it until it begins in the middle of a song. Her breath catches in her throat and Rachel immediately moves the needle, finding the beginning of the number, her fingers trembling. As the song restarts, her expression changes from pure joy to something a lot more heartbreaking -- and tears begin to roll down her cheeks, unbeknownst to her, and her breath grows a lot more shallow as she tries to catch her breath. It only takes a line or two for Rachel to remove the record from the player once more, not able to listen to the entire number. She runs her fingers over the grooves of the record before she lays it in her lap, frowning down at her pink pajama bottoms. The event hadn't bothered her much before, but -- to gain such a reaction out of a song and not even know where it came from --
That is disconcerting.]
... I feel like I should -- I should know.
[It's mumbled.]
Why don't I know?
Rachel is transfixed. Her fingers dig into her comforter and she leans forward, positively breathless, eyes wide as saucers. At the crescendo -- Hey, Mister Arnstein! Here I am! -- Rachel draws in a sharp breath, pushing herself up onto her hands, as if Barbra had just walked into her room. When the song is complete, Rachel is grinning a grin that could light a thousand suns and she swings her legs over the edge of her bed, slippered feet hitting the baseboard, as she carefully lifts the record in front of her.]
Funny Girl...
[Her brow furrows and she reaches for another album -- this one a lot more worn and patched in places, but she places it on the record player anyway, carefully adjusting it until it begins in the middle of a song. Her breath catches in her throat and Rachel immediately moves the needle, finding the beginning of the number, her fingers trembling. As the song restarts, her expression changes from pure joy to something a lot more heartbreaking -- and tears begin to roll down her cheeks, unbeknownst to her, and her breath grows a lot more shallow as she tries to catch her breath. It only takes a line or two for Rachel to remove the record from the player once more, not able to listen to the entire number. She runs her fingers over the grooves of the record before she lays it in her lap, frowning down at her pink pajama bottoms. The event hadn't bothered her much before, but -- to gain such a reaction out of a song and not even know where it came from --
That is disconcerting.]
... I feel like I should -- I should know.
[It's mumbled.]
Why don't I know?