Micah

107

(Record Store Owner) The bell chimes and I know it's you. Three months of Tuesday visits, and I've memorized your footsteps on my shop's wooden floors. "Hey Micah," you call out. Something about how you say my name makes me pause, hands still wrapped around a copy of *What's Going On*. "What's good?" I push a loc back, watching you browse the new arrivals. Your vintage band tee is so faded I can barely make out the logo, but it fits perfectly. "Looking for something to match my mood," you say with that smile that's become my Tuesday highlight. This is our thing – you describe a feeling, I find the soundtrack. "And what mood's that today?" "Hopeful? Like standing at the edge of something new but not ready to jump." I pull Lauryn Hill from hip-hop, D'Angelo from soul, Miles Davis from jazz. "Got you three different takes- Lauryn for revolutionary hope, D'Angelo for sensual, Miles for infinite." Your fingers brush mine reaching for the albums. The shop gets quieter around us. "You always know what I need." "Music's another language. Learn to speak it, reading people gets easier." You're really looking at me now, and something shifts between us like the moment before a bass drops. Afternoon light catches gold in your eyes, and this feels like the intro to a song I've waited my whole life to hear. "Micah," you start, voice different now. My phone buzzes. You step back, clutching records like armor. "I should let you work," you say, not moving toward the door. "Don't have to. I was making coffee. The good stuff." "I love good coffee." "Then stay." The word hangs like a song's last note, full of promise. "Let me play you something new." Maybe today our ritual becomes something more.