Vinyls & Voracity

Sonic Boom, the store is called, little logo of an explosion plastered on all the glass windows of the store.

Fitting name, considering the inside is an audiophiles heaven - wood paneling, plenty of plants, little sound absorbers hung up on the walls. Probably just for decor, though. It's filled with vinyls, posters of vinyls, and people dressed in outfits that screamed: "I'm not like other people", and maybe the odd, "Paris Fashion Week is for normies, I have taste".

Your people, really. You scoff, walking past the top-40er scanning through Sabrina Carpenter and Olivia Rodrigo albums (great artists, but you'd never be caught buying their albums. You like nugu stuff, 'cause you're different), making your way to the lower floor. Rows of milk crates hold albums in various states of dismay, because for some reason, milk crates are the hip place to store vinyls. Scanning, you find the 'T' section.

While Tyler the Creator is far from underground, his highly experimental music lands him as one of your favourite artists, so, after saving up (because, let's be honest, do audiophiles ever have stores of money?), you know Flower Boy would be the perfect edition to really make your room stand out.

You walk there with just the perfect display of hip - groovy mixed with just a hint of aloofness, whatever the fuck that means. You can see from here they do indeed have Flower Boy, but judging by the emptiness of the crate, it's the last one. Perfect. You reach out to it.

You have the perfect place for it. You'll stick the album sleeve on your bedside wall, right next to your beabadoobee album, maybe 'Space Cadet'. Flower Boy and Space Cadet, you make some half-assed connection about space and earth and how you'r-

Someone grabs the album. You curse inwardly, but it's washed away as your eyes climb her slender arm, dotted with tattoos that she'd probably claim have some deep, introspective meaning. You gloss over her, outfit that could put anyone here to shame. Slightly baggy crop top, and denim shorts, her pale skin radiates the whole room. Her hair falls down in long strands of black and silver, and you're left stunned, honestly.

She locks eyes with you, and they're large and expressive, and, in combination with the way she grips the vinyl, it's challenging.

A soft curl of her plump lips exposes just the tip of her tongue, and you almost forget about the album. Until she appraises you, a quick look up and down. Her smile widens.

"I think I was here first," she says. It's like, melodic, her voice, which kind of makes you want to give it up, but of course, no one's a bigger music head than you are, so you just can't in good faith let this go to someone else.

"Hmm, what, so you're like one of those fake fans who just found Tyler recently right?" You say, leaning on the shelf. Might as well get comfortable. "And now you're going through his entire back catalogue, to like, prove you're a real fan?" Yeah, you'll accept her challenge.

Her grip on the vinyl tightens, and she bites her lip - at the challenge or at you, you don't know, but it's dangerous because they look even fuller now, which seems impossible, but here you are.

"What are you doing, then?" She asks, pushing her head forward. Her cheeks are full and red, and the way she tilts her head places it at the forefront. You still don't know what to make of the artsy girl, but something tells you it's a front. She doesn't really care about the vinyl anymore, she found something more interesting.

"Probably the same thing," you say, and even though it's an admission of defeat, or more accurately, an admission of equality, you say it smugly. "Here," you say, grabbing another vinyl, the black and silver 'Chromakopia', and hand it to her. "Take this one, matches your hair."

She doesn't even look down, just keeps her eyes trained on you. "Already have it," she says simply. "Because unlike you, I'm not a fake fan." She lets the words hang there on her tongue, mouth frozen in the last position of her speech like she's waiting for your retort.

So, she denies that admission of equality.

"But I can tell you are," she says when no retort comes. Her eyes flick to your feet. "Doc Martens? Pretty last year, don't you think?"

She took your truce and threw it back in your face, and that damn smirk still lines hers. She's having fun here, and you're on your back foot.

Her smile is so damn bright it hurts, but your ego is in shatters. Not like it's rare though, your types egos are really quite fragile. Hence the clothes. But, maybe you could use that.

"You know what, take it," and it's your turn to curl your lips. "On second thought, Tyler's not really my taste". If there's one thing you know about these artsy types, it's they'll defend their artists to tooth and nail. But you don't give her a chance. You're off to the next row of shelves, and you can feel her eyes bearing into the back of your skull.

You would've liked to see those plump lips in action more, but for some odd reason, you have a feeling this isn't over.

That moments comes when you're leaving the store. She's leaning back on the brick wall right near the door, cigarette already burning. You now notice her legs, and although she's not tall, your eyes follow them for what seems like miles. She takes a drag, and you swear you can see that little mole right under her lip wave at you like: "come here! You think you can question my music taste?"

"What'd you get?" She asks, eyeing your tote, which is considerably more full than 10 minutes ago. You smirk, knowing you got her. Her voice is lined with genuine curiosity, which is funny, because clearly you are a Tyler fan, and your earlier comment was just a ruse. But still, artsy kids and their egos, right?

You pull out the vinyl. "It'll go perfect on my vinyl wall," you say, equal parts flexing the album and the fact you have a vinyl wall. "You know him?"

"Tch. Do I know him," she scoffs. "Of course I do. It's Keshi."

"Hmm." It's all you give her, and clearly, she wants to prove herself.

"I guess you have good taste," she says. It's not a full compliment, really. You know how these games are played. "He's been on my radar since, oh I don't know, his first EP."

Yep, there it is. It's meant to bother you, and that pleased little look on her face makes it so it does indeed get under your skin.

The mole is dancing around in your peripheral vision, and she sees your eyes flick from her bare legs to her toned tummy, back up to the mole, and she presses her advantage even further. "It's a good album. Looks great on my wall, right next to his other albums."

You should just walk away, but that cigarette is trapped between her lips again, and just the sight of it leaves you woozy.

"Sounds like you have good taste too," you admit.

She smiles. "I do."

"Mhm." You say a little aggressively, because yeah, now you definitely lost.

"Wanna see?" She asks suddenly.

It catches you off guard. "See what?"

"My taste," she smiles. "I live down the street."

For some reason, you say yes. Her apartment is a little old, a little run down, but it's littered with personality. She does indeed have a vinyl wall, but also one of those old vinyl players (not the one's with that brass trumpet looking thing, because she's an audiophile, not a grandma), a couple of wine glasses scattered around, and plenty of plants.

She bends lower than she needs to when she places the vinyl in the player, and her long legs look so fucking milky and delicious. You suddenly realize you're in this girls apartment, alone, with her long legs and her attitude, and you think, well fuck, this is going better than expected.

She loads the tonearm. "You've never listened to it, right?" She asks, and you draw away from her hips to realize she's been staring at you. "No? Perfect, I'll start it from the beginning."

She saunters over to you, still smirking. She must have done something since inviting you over, because her collarbone is so damn alluring right now, peaking out from her crop top. You could've sworn it didn't look that good when she was grabbing your album. The ring of the music starts, and she's less than a foot away from you now, leaning against the back of her couch with her arms crossed.

You don't know what to make of it, any of it.

She opens her mouth again, just a bit so you can see her tongue just past her lips. She stares at you expectantly.

"So, what do you think?"

"Hmm?"

"The album?" You definitely weren't paying attention. You almost forgot she was playing something new for you, something to validate her good taste in music.

"Oh. Ye- yeah it's good." You say, stuttering because you're more focused on how fragile she looks, on how you could probably pick her up and fuck her while she begs for more - but that's getting ahead of yourself.

"I told you I had good taste," she smiles happily. She's so close you can feel her breath on you. It's minty and warm, and you swear she angles her face while she says it, just to give you a better view of that mole.

She gives a small chuckle, and you know then you've fallen into her trap. The pretense is gone, the one that's been there since you both grabbed the album- fuck, you can't even remember which album it was, and the same pretense of a new album she wanted to play for you.