On an Edge of Glass by Autumn Doughton Page A

“Nothing.  I just didn’t peg you for a listener of emo kill-yourself type music.”
                  Now I’m offended.  “Excuse me?  What are you, like the god of music?”  I point to the speaker.  “ This happens to be an excellent song off an incredible album.”
                  “Whoa, down girl!”  Ben laughs.  “I completely agree with you.  This song is great.  The baseline is intense and the drummer nails the bridge.  All I meant is that I didn’t have you pegged for this type of music.”
                  “And what, exactly, did you have me pegged for?”  Ahhhhh!  Why does that so sexual coming out of my mouth?  My face blushes scarlet.
                  Luckily, Ben is oblivious.  He’s listing off names of artists I wouldn’t be caught dead listening to.  My dismay is growing.  All I can manage to spit out is, “You’ve got to be kidding me!”
                  Ben laughs again as we get out of the car.  “Don’t be offended, Ellie.  The real you is turning out to be even better than I originally thought.  And that’s saying a lot.” 
    The compliment takes me by surprise and I make a misstep.  Ben catches me by my elbow before I manage to topple over. He stands me up and brushes the falling hair away from my face. 
    Shaking off an a shiver , I follow Ben toward a narrow, lonely looking shop tucked into a brick building between a dry cleaner and a place that makes the bold claim that they have “The Best Enchiladas in the Galaxy.”  We’re about two blocks too far off of Main Street for me to feel comfortable and I find myself sliding closer to Ben. 
    “I still can’t believe you ever thought that I would listen to that crap.” 
                  “Consider me put in my place,” he says softly, bending his face to my ear. 
    He pushes on the brass knob of a non-descript black wooden door.  An old bell serenades us as we walk in.  I look around, taking it all in—the yellowed lighting and the dated couch that’s shoved into a small alcove to our right.  Brown is working its way into the masking tape colored walls from the corners and the cash register looks like it matriculated from a factory sometime in the late 1970s. 
    The place goes back a lot farther than I anticipate.  There are music posters everywhere and rows upon rows of vinyl records stretching to the back wall.  It smells like a cross between nacho chips and stale office space.  The floor is made up of worn burnt orange carpet smudged with shoe marks and the occasional ground-in piece of chewing gum. 
    I turn my head to Ben.  “A record store, huh?”
                  Ben tucks his hair back and a wide, dimpled grin breaks his face apart.  “It’s a little more than that, but… yeah.”
                  As we walk down one of the aisles, a harassed looking guy appears from a backroom door.  He’s got wire-rim silver glasses and graying hair that meets in the front in an abrupt widow’s peak.  He grumbles a greeting when he sees us and ushers us to the front desk.  He and Ben have a quick conversation about strings and flatrounds and frets.
    I nod and pretend to follow along, but really, I have no idea what they’re talking about.  Ben glances down at me and smiles knowingly with one corner of his mouth.  In response, my heart dips.  When he slings his arm casually over my shoulder and introduces me to the guy—Harvey—my pulse officially redlines. 
     
     
    Back on the street, Ben explains that he was ordering a few things for his instruments.  He tells me that repair and part replacement are Harvey’s bread and butter.  The records in the store are more of a hobby than a profit producing business.
                  “So music is your thing?”
                  Ben is steering us down the sidewalk.  He stretches his long arms out and shrugs down at me.