InsaneJournal

This, Pam thought as she hunched over the rack of vinyls, was a terrible idea. Cassettes? CDs? Those you could smuggle under your shirt and walk out with. Forget to pay for. Play easily. Records were a whole other ball game. And she didn't have the money to spend on nonsense, but–

"Fuck it," she muttered and yanked the record from the rack.

Thirty seconds later, she emerged from Supernova dripping hostility and a dizzying sense of euphoria – and walked right into a guy in a lobster hat. In his hands were flyers advertising the famous lobster-ritas. In hers was the record.

Both went flying when the guy veered out of the way of a pair of running kids. Pam discovered too late that she should've paid attention to where she was going. The record hit the ground first. Pam saw it and was briefly relieved.

Then the ground rose up to meet her, sandwiching the record between her elbow and the asphalt.

The crack should've rung out for miles, but Pam was pretty sure nobody heard it but her. She lay there on the side walk, in the aftermath, covered in flyers, torn between incredulity and vindication. And then she began to laugh.