The Record Store;

i

the record store; i; new politics.

"You're crazy." I told my friend, who was currently dragging me down the high street. "If you think I'm going in here to look at you gawking at boy-band CDs for another hour, you're very much mistaken."

She huffed and continued dragging me down the street, and stopped outside the door of a small, record store. I looked through the small window.

"Laura." I told her. "I'm pretty sure they won't have any '5 Seconds of Summer' EP's in here."

She sighed. "Hollie. How many times do I have to tell you. We're not here for the music, we're here for the cashier. He's hot."

I laughed at her. "You have..." I though for a moment. I could never remember his name for the life of me. "Daniel. That's it. You have him."

"Not for me, duh." She said. "You. And seeing as you can name literally every single songwriter in history, I'm pretty sure he's the one for you."

Meet Laura: she had a terrible habit of over exaggerating things.

"He's probably not even that good looking." I told her. "He's probably ten years older than me, a jerk, and has no care for the job he has."

"I don't care." She told me. "We're going in anyway."

"Whatever." I said as she grabbed my wrist lightly and pulled me through the door.

Immediately, I could tell this place was kind of like a treasure trove. It was slightly busy, and carried a slight fusty stench, but it seemed like the people truly enjoyed spending their times slowly browsing through records of both songs and musicians they had never heard of.

I turned around to see that my slightly irreverent friend had already wondered off into one of the rows of CDs and LPs that were closer to the front, giving a large stare to who I guessed was the cashier guy she'd been crushing over for the past week or so.

I ignored her as I walked past, her hand gestures making me laugh, and headed straight for the furthest corner of the shop, labelled by a massive sign that read 'Classical' and had a comedy record clipart over it for some kind of effect, which I didn't actually understand.

I started to flick through the pile, slightly disregarding what I was flicking through, and stared silently at my friend. I guessed she couldn't see what I was doing, as she was still trying to lock a stare with the guy who was happily serving multiple customers and labelling and pricing objects without even looking in her direction, looking a tiny bit stupid while she did it.

A noise behind me made me jump slightly, loosing my place in the pile of records and CDs I was flicking my way through. I sighed it off and moved slightly to the right: the person who made the noise clearly wanted to look at the records I was aimlessly moving my way through.

And so I started looking through again. I recognised some of the names I met in my venture through the second pile of records. But then the noise came again, and a little louder, so I moved again, this time a little further away, but the voice still followed.

"Sorry." I mumbled. "I'm in your way aren't I?"

"Nope." The voice replied. "I like following girls wearing rock band t-shirts around the classical section. Your sort are very few and far between."

I still didn't turn my head around. "My sort?" I questioned him, or at least I thought he was a him, or she or...

I stopped and turned around, confirming my expectations that it was a guy, but proving false the ones that it was a middle aged, bald guy who was stalking me or something.