π΅ π πΈ π« π·πΆ π» (jukejoint) wrote in repose, @ 2015-11-10 03:14:00 |
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Entry tags: | *log, daniel webster, harper love |
Webster's Vinyl: Harper & Daniel
Who: Harper and Daniel
What: Meeting
Where: Webster's Vinyl
When: Nowish
Warnings/Rating: TBD, but probably fine!
Rest of the shops off Main Street all had their lights lights doused. Stores, that was. Food places, they was still open, but stores were closed up, and Repose always did go to bed like it was some senior citizen ate dinner too late. But Webster's Vinyl, it stayed opened bold as brass and until midnight most nights. People complained at first, but they realized it was a losing battle when those Love girls painted the outside of the building like it was on the Northside, and couldn't expect anything much better from two girls like those.
So, the store was open, but it wasn't late as all that. Music was playing, just like it always did. Record turning behind the register, and the static coming through the speakers and filling the place with depth. Harper thought that crackle and snap was beautiful, and the crystal clarity of MP3s wasn't anywhere near as good. She remembered old man Webster standing behind that counter, predicting those crackles like they were sunrise.
Harper was standing behind that same counter. A cigarette burned down on the flat surface, tucked into an ashtray that'd started its life out as a can of soup. She wore jeans too loose, rolled too high at the ankles, and a sweater too big, Her hair was bad-dye lavender, fading through and color seeped from the crown of her head, mostly straightened and like hay in summer. She was a small thing of a girl, nineteen and 5-feet small, and even her dark skin didn't make her imposing. She had wrists like bird's bones, hips just as narrow, and ankles that looked like they couldn't support her inconsequential weight.
She leaned elbows on that counter, and she wondered where Ceil was. Her phone rang, and Harper answered the familiar tone on ring three. Ma calling, and Harper was respectful, just like she'd been taught. She didn't listen hard, still, because she was nineteen, and ma fretted like her and Ceil were still little girls sitting outside while johns came knocking. But her and Ceil, they were a whole lot older now, and Harper lived the delusion of not needing mothering any longer.
The laptop on the counter was a Mac, too nice for a girl with low funds, but it was sitting there, white and pretty and covered in stickers of crossbones and music notes. Screen was bright, some chat window and a man talking dumb with his fingers. Harper hardly paid that screen any attention, but she looked over and typed inanities every few minutes. Seeming eager wouldn't do, not if she wanted to reel him in. She sucked her cigarette damp, and she typed some hearts and heartfelt nonsense, and she sang along with Gary Moore, crooned. "Oh, pretty woman / Whatcha gonna do? / You kept on foolin' around / Till I got stuck on you."
Now, Harper was small of stature, but she had some pipes on her. The girl could belt, and she sang along like she didn't care who listened. Not a bit of shy in the voice that came from that tiny mouth.
Girl didn't even stop singing when the bell jangled at the door, someone coming in and awake late. She lifted her head, looked up from that laptop, and wasn't surprised to see some white man there. Repose was filled with skin like milk, and if people could compare her with coffee and cocoa, then they could be contented to come out of a milk jug.
She finished the refrain, and she inhaled that nicotine burned, and she waited for the white man to ask after some Perry Como.