Tori
My feet are dragging, and my hands are sweating, pulling on the metal bar of the shop, hearing the familiar chime of bells as I enter. The record shop is owned by an older cool cat, once part of The Commodores, full of soul to this day. He'd regal Alicia and I with tales when he found us hanging out on slow Friday nights.
The walls are full of records, old and new, with the best looking covers while the others were stored in the middle bins organized alphabetically, by genre or vibe. Alicia was great at keeping these organized, coming up with a system that the owner promises to continue using even after she stops working here.
I take a step in, finding the black record shaped welcome rug is missing, more than likely someone spilled something on it again. The no food or drink sign
