City of Angels

fine dining

Sophie picks up her chocolate stuffed pastry and holds it between her teeth, searching for her wallet in her overturned room.
She prays that Nikki and his idiotic friends haven't stolen anything. There would be no end to her hatred if he had. Luckily, she uncovers her $1,500 purse and clutches it tight. All her credit cards are stashed inside it, not to mention her favourite lipstick.

Sophie had woken today up and decided it was time to explore the city, perhaps grab some food. She'd ordered a small breakfast, orange juice and croissants, to motivate herself.
She throws on a pair of casual blue jeans and a white shirt, wearing a long brown coat to keep herself warm in the biting cold of the morning.
Since she'll be walking, stilettos aren't her shoe of choice. Instead, she opts for thick heeled pumps.
She takes one last look around the messy room and scrunches her nose in distaste. She flips the 'do not disturb' sign on the door to 'housekeeping welcome' and locks it behind her, just to make sure no filthy boys sneak in whole she's away. Then she ventures down to the lobby, polishing off the last of her pastry and pushing open the glass doors, soaking in the weak sunlight.
Tall buildings scrape the fresh skies, not quite as tall as the New York towers, her father would be sure to mention if he were here.
The air is crisp, unlike downtown L.A., which is another story entirely.

Sophie struts down the side walk, with gazes drawn to her like a magnet. They assume she must be important, they admire the way she carries herself with so much confidence as assuredness. She peers into the various boutiques and shops, deciding from the window whether they're worth the time it takes to go inside. But it isn't a clothing store that catches her attention next, it is a record store.
The dusty look of the place without the glaring lights and shiny decorations has a strange effect on her. It is the opposite of her natural element.
Sophie listens to music often, but her father always preferred live performances rather than records. He liked to watch classical ensembles from the front row. He always said it was far more enriching, so Sophie was raised accordingly.
She's open minded when it comes to music. Whatever feels good, feels good, right? And it never hurts to introduce oneself to new things.
So, Sophie steps into the shop, a bell tinkling overhead as she enters. She smiles at the woman behind the counter and ventures into the first aisle. 
Shelves upon shelves are cluttered with records, all sitting proudly, colours clashing in an awful, disorganised but charming kind of way.

The stacks are organised by genre, and as Sophie runs her fingertips along them, she stops now and then to study what she's landed upon.
Her favourite artists are scattered through the shop, some hidden from view. But she manages to locate a few, just to reminisce.

"Did you need a hand with anything or are you just browsing for the moment?" The woman leans against the cluttered counter, pushing a dyed red fringe out of her eyes.
"Just looking," Sophie replies.
"Alright, let me know," the woman turns to a basket of records and begins sorting through them. Sophie's gaze lingers on the delicate tattoo that wraps around her bicep and forearm. She'd thought about getting a tattoo before but never found anything significant enough to permanently ink onto her skin. Maybe that's the point. Maybe it should be a temporary idea, to look back on. Like a journal.
She moves on, sweeping through the racks, unsure of what she's looking for.
"Actually, sorry," she turns to the girl manning the shop. "I may need a hand."
She makes her way over, revealing a delightfully 70's flair for fashion.
"How can I help you?"
"I want to know what everyone's buying. What's popular, who sells?"
"Goodness, there's a few," the shopkeeper laughs, tucking a red lock behind her ear.
Chunky purple earrings swing as she browses the records, Sophie following close behind.