“Oh!” There’s immediate recognition and it’s cute. “My dad had this album. I love ‘The Passenger.’”
She puts it back in place and does a one-eighty, reaching out for what she assumes will be more records behind her. There are. I watch her repeat the ritual, adoring strokes on the covers until she begins flipping through them, stops, and pulls one out.
“Which album is this?” Her excitement is like a can of RC Cola that’s been shaken up and opened, fizzing out. I’m sticky in it and I don’t want to wash it off.
“Duran Duran’s ‘Seven and the Ragged Tiger,’” I tell her.
She sighs and the sound scatters goose bumps up my arms and down my legs. “I had such a crush on Simon Le Bon in ninth grade. I used to run home after school every day to watch the Top Twenty Video Countdown on MTV so I didn’t miss ‘The Reflex.’ God, I loved that song. And blonds. I definitely had a thing for blonds.”
Even the grouchy looking goth dude dressed in head to toe black in the next row is smiling listening to her.
Caught up in her excitement, I ask without thinking, “And now?”
Unoffended, she answers, “Now I have a thing for deep voices that reverberate behind my ribs long after I’ve heard them; innate kindness; and people who seeme, not the fact that I can’t.” She walks, dragging her fingers along the front of the display case. From what I can tell, she’s just described Taber. When she reaches the end of the row, she asks, “What about you, Toby?”
I have a thing for you, Alice, is the first thought that comes to mind. The second thought is,I bet she’s as intentional, detailed, descriptive, and thorough with her kisses as she is with her words. Followed quickly by the answer I give when I catch up to her: “I didn’t have a crush on Simon Le Bon in ninth grade.”
She laughs. “You aren’t truly doing life justice if you haven’t experienced a Simon Le Bon lusting phase.” Entering the next aisle, I think she’s going to let me off the hook, but she doesn’t. “What makes your pulse race, Toby?”
Not,What’s attractive?or,What’s your type?but,What makes your pulse race?
She hasn’t touched the albums, she’s waiting. When she listens, she listens with her entire body.
“I don’t know.” It sounds lame when I say it, but it’s true, I’ve never really thought about it.
“Nope. We’re not moving on until you answer the question.” She crosses her arms disapprovingly, but she’s smirking. “Friends answer friend’s questions. They have conversations. They get to know each other. Start talking.”
“Give me a minute,” I say to pause the moment. When I’m ready, I step to her, tuck my nose into her hair, and lower my voice so no one else can hear. “A genuine smile, especially if I know I put it there; someone who listens when I have nothing to say; sharing the same taste in music; and blondes. I have a thing for blondes.” Nothing I said meant anything to me before I met Alice. It’s a very short list of the things aboutherthat make my pulse race. The rest I’ll keep to myself because this could get incredibly inappropriate in no time and then Taber will use the steak knife on me instead of threatening me with it.
“The most important time to listen is when words are missing, that’s when hearts cry out the loudest.” She smiles softly and then changes the subject. “I want you to show me your favorite album in this store and tell me a story about it.”
I hesitate, not because I don’t know, but because I don’t know if I want to share. I could easily make something up—there are plenty of bands I like—but I decide to go with the truth. “It’s over here.”
“I should go back for my cane before we move on. I got excited and left it on the last aisle,” she says.
“I have it,” I tell her, and when she reaches out, I place it in her grasp.
“Thanks,” she says before she holds out her left hand. “Show me.”
I slide my fingers between hers, moan internally, and walk us down the aisle, over two, and loop back to the spot where we began. Yes, we were, coincidentally, standing five feet from section L when she asked the question. But as soon as she offered me her hand, a longer route was necessary.
She smiles slyly when we come to a stop. “We just walked in a circle, Toby.”
“I forgot where it was,” I lie.
“Mmm-hmm,” she hums, a smile still in place.
I’m only mildly embarrassed until I look up and goth guy is giving me a mocking thumbs-up while mouthing the word,Smooth, and then I’m mortified. Annoyed, I shake my head at the taunter in black because I can’t tell him to shut up, and flick through the stack of vinyl until I find what I’m looking for.
“This is my favorite album,Physical Graffiti,” I say, freeing it from the others. I haven’t looked at this cover for years and my throat is suddenly closing off. Why did I do this?
“Can I hold it?” Alice asks. I see her lips move more than I hear her because she’s speaking so quietly.
When she outstretches her hand, I place it within reach and she takes it. Leaning her cane against the display, she runs her fingertips reverently over the cover. “How old were you the first time you heard it?”
I cough to try to find my voice, but it cracks on the only syllable I can force out. “Nine.” My sister, Nina, had just come to live with us again. She was in and out of our lives a lot. That time she’d overdosed and my mom insisted she come and live with us after she was released from the hospital. She said she was sick and it was an accident. I was too young to understand addiction and I believed her. I always believed her. I loved it when Nina was around, probably because it was an unexpected treat. She paid attention to me, made me laugh, taught me how to draw, watched cartoons with me on Saturday mornings, read me comics before I could read, and during that stay with us she played her Led Zeppelin album and unknowingly made me fall in love with music. All of this I don’t tell Alice, of course. I don’t talk about Nina with anyone. Ever.
She’s nodding her head, giving me time to compose myself because the emotion erupting is hard to conceal. And then she does something unexpected. She sets the record down on top of the others and she turns slightly, finds the sleeve of my arms crossed over my chest with her hand and tugs it gently, her other arm extended out in invitation.
