Disco

Melli was twelve the winter she hauled a box of her uncle Tonino’s records out of the damp cellar: warped italo-disco, a few battered twelve-inches, a Moroder sleeve half-eaten by mice. Half of them skipped. She played them until the needle gave out.

Everything with a mirrorball in it lives here — including the whole Disco Set: shirt, shorts, board shorts and socks on one pattern.