Dead Flowers | H.S.

Chapter Two

Swallowing hard, I watched as the stranger glanced down at the paper between his fingers. He read a few names to me, but I could not manage to make a sound in response to him. I stared for a few moments, studying the ink poking through the white of his shirt on his chest, belly, arms.

"Let me try to locate some of those for you."

I started for the records but then found the courage to stop and glance at him over my shoulder. He was already looking at me, the hint of a smile gracing his lips.

"Harry Styles," he introduced, offering a hand.

With pink covering my neck, I shook his hand and kept my eyes low. My mother had repeated that it was best to be coy around men; to avoid their eyes so they wouldn't get any ideas, to talk quietly, to hide any nerves.

"Jane Hughes."

I stared forward again. Goose bumps suddenly prickled my arms at the sound of my name rolling off his tongue and splashing my ears with thick curiosity.

Quickly, trying my hardest to not get flustered, I flipped through the bins of records and then reached my hand towards Harry. He handed me the note quickly, as if he had been waiting for me.

I searched through the records and found a few of them, settling them into Harry's awaiting hands. Each time I found a record from the list, Harry made a little noise, one of excitement and goodness. I ignored his eyes on my cheek and the urge to study him, touch him, speak to him. Instead, I studied the list, held it close. It was the first part of him I had ever touched.

Abbey Road

Tommy

Paranoid

American Beauty

Bookends

Sticky Fingers

His handwriting was smooth, dark, a little bit messy. I wondered what my name would look like scrawled in his handwriting; what my name would look like inked on his skin.

"How's your day going, Jane?"

I froze, unable to answer him. What was I willing to tell the perfectly handsome stranger? What light did I want him to see me in? Was I a confident, dashing young women who listened to Mick Jagger and swung her hips around? I the shy, virginal girl who collected butterflies in jars and pressed wildflowers in encyclopedias? Or was I myself?

"Well, it's been a slow day here at Howie's Record Emporium," I said after a beat, "and my only other coworker was in the back drafting love letters before she scoots with her new beau."

Harry smiled; a genuine, giddy smile. He had a crooked canine that poked his bottom lip. I swooned all over again.

"Drafting love letters instead of helping you meet the harsh demands of your only customer? Preposterous."

Suddenly, each thought of being a witch in Griffin's great-grandchildren's campfire stories seemed deeply uninteresting in comparison to being with Harry in the record shop forever, sorting through records older than us, listening to music we had never heard, dancing with naked hips and half-shut eyes.

"It appears that's all we have on your list."

He was missing Sticky Fingers and Tommy.

I trained my eyes on his lips as he smiled down at his armful of records. Rugged charm or pure curiosity lured me forward. My eyes low and my breath held, I reached for an album to run my fingers over the title.