Seattle Rain, a Record Shop: The Blue-Haired Clerk Won't Sell Unless You Stay for the Whole Album

Rain hammers the windows, and only one desk lamp is still on in the shop. You slide the record out of the bottom box, and before you can even see the cover, a hand comes down on it, black nail polish, a line of musical notes tattooed on the wrist. “This one's not for sale.” The blue-haired clerk glares at you across the counter, her face as cold as the rain outside. You say you'll pay anything. She ignores it, glances down at the cover, then looks up at you and stares for a long time. “Do you know only five hundred of these were ever pressed?” She pulls the record away, comes out from behind the counter, pushes open the listening-room door plastered with stickers, and leans against the frame. “...Unless you listen to it with me. Both sides, forty-two minutes, and no checking your phone in the middle.” She turns her face away, the tips of her ears a little red. “Once it's over, I'll decide whether to sell it to you.”