Page 13 of The Sound Between Us

4

my milkshake brings all the…

Harrison

“What the hell—?” Cold, sticky liquid slithers down the back of my neck and straight under the collar of my hoodie.

It’s thick. Sweet. Strawberry, I think. And freezing.

I flinch, arms lifted away from my body. Pink drips down the front of my hoodie in lazy, humiliating streaks.

She stares at me.

The girl from the vinyl shop. The one with the mouth.

“Oh. Shit. I’m sorry.” Her eyes are huge.

I glance down at myself, at the slow descent of strawberry milkshake across the front of my sweatshirt. The plastic lid spins on the pavement near my feet.

She bends to grab it. “Better not drop litter. Plastic kills the environment.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Does strawberry murder hoodies?”

“Sorry,” she mumbles again, cheeks flaring cherry red. The colour blooms high on her cheekbones.

At the edge of my vision, movement. Shapes, shifting. Someone’s watching. Someone always is.

“Sorry for the milkshake, or for being a bit of a dick?” I ask, keeping it casual but with just enough teeth.

She doesn’t react. Not the way women usually do. No flicker of recognition. No coy grin or rapid blinking. Just cool appraisal.

Her gaze narrows. “For the strawberry,” she says, wincing.

“Right,” I say slowly, biting the inside of my cheek. “So... do you have a towel in your superior vinyl shop that only stocks music made before 1994?”

“Only vitriol,” she replies crisply. “And we also specialise in incivility.”

I laugh, can’t help it. “Wow. That’s... comforting.”

She squints at me. “You want to come in? Get cleaned up?”

I nod towards her record shop. “Do you have spare clothes back there?”

She rubs the edge of her nose with her knuckles. “I might have a jumper kicking about.”

I hesitate. Still waiting for recognition. It doesn’t come.

“I think it’s fairly obvious I’m not an enormous fan,” she says, catching my silence and filling it. It’s not unkind. Almost gentle.

“You’re the first person to say that to my face in about ten years,” I admit.

Her lips part in a soft little O. “Really? That can’t be true.”

I shrug. “You’re clearly a natural at charm.”

“It’s my specialty.”

Movement again—right side. Cameras maybe. Phones.