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Entering the store is what Arkha would have liked to attribute to something poetic like serendipity, but in actuality it was born out of a wayward mesh of circumstance. It was raging rush hour and the crowds thronging the street had taken a singular, monstrous form, and this deep into the summer months the humidity was so palpable your limbs were like ghosts moving in front of you. So Arkha found himself in this old record store—because he was hot, because he was lost, and because it was the only place with not a lot of people and a whole lot of air conditioning.
He has no idea of Semiu’s whereabouts. About an hour ago, as the o’clock hit lunch break, she dragged him out by the arm and he had enough sense to not question her. That was their relationship; he gave her pay checks, she watered him and made sure he got plenty of sunshine.
Coffee shops are her usual haunt; other times, there’s this nice Indian place with the sweetest chai she rewards herself with whenever she's ahead on paperwork. But this time, the streets that were usually manoeuvrable were throbbing with human life. Later, Arkha learns that a large restaurant chain had opened up a diner at the end of the street and the opening ceremony supposedly promised a lot of pomp—but at that moment both he and Semiu were thrust into shockingly deep waters and left to doggy-paddle through a sea of elbows and limbs among the nauseating effluvia of sweaty bodies.
Honestly, Arkha will admit that everything through that impenetrable hell was a blur, save for the fact that when he finally came to his senses, Semiu was gone, cast away through the overcurrent and into oblivion.
And so what does he, her boss, do? He waits under a bus stop like a lost child in a ravenous market. But even after ten minutes, there’s no sight of her; and in that ten minutes, the sun had cooked his hair to a sizzle, and god, he really wished there was at least one cloud in the sky—
He turned, left, and slipped through the nearest back alley where, after a lot of blind meandering, he finds himself inside a blissfully cool store that smells of dust and fresh leather.
There is a tambourine rather than a bell above the door, jingling when opened and shimmering into silence once shut.
He gives the interior a once over; not too large, but handsome and distinguishable. Lining the walls are plastic records, framed on wooden stands are album covers, and in the far corner there sits a sleek phonograph—all of which are given royal treatment by the glassy veil of sunshine bringing out their sparkles and the colonies of dust swaying slow through the air.
There’s no one at the cash register. Above, music plays clear and quiet.
Arkha pulls out his phone and dials Semiu. It doesn't go through. He tries one more time, and still, same results.
“You won’t find signal here,” a mellifluous stretch of air says behind him. He whirls around and comes face to face with a long-haired beauty, gazing up at him like a sleepy feather. “We've been trying to switch networks. I’ve been on hold for four hours.”
“… Is that the hold music playing then?”
The woman nods. “Yes. Terrible, isn’t it?”
“I guess,” Arkha laughs and slips his phone away. “Why are you blasting it from the speakers if you hate it so much?”
She shrugs, “I thought it might bring in some customers. Pop music is soulless and addictive and people seem to like that sort of stuff. I guess it worked.”
Arkha shakes his head while following her to the cash register. She takes a seat behind the counter and rests her elbows against sheets of yellow paper desecrated with handwriting so bad it could summon a demon.
“Well. Any interest in rock ‘n’ roll??”
“Only the geographical type,” Arkha jokes, and immediately feels his stomach face-palm and try to crawl out through his leg.
“Only the geographical type,” the woman echoes. Then she smiles a tiny smile, accompanied with an eye-roll. “Don’t just stand there then.”
“Not much else I can do. I lost a friend and have no clue where she is. Unless you have a policy against customers loitering here without paying?”
“We don’t, but I doubt parking yourself in a shop in the middle of nowhere will help her find you.”
“Fair, fair point.”
Silence. The music has changed; this time it’s a melody so banal Arkha swears he's heard its siblings and cousins play in about a dozen different malls and elevators.
He should go look for Semiu.
“I’m Arkha,” is what he says instead.
“Tamsy,” replies the woman.
“Don’t know a thing about rock and roll, Tamsy,” Arkha laughs. “Care to be my guide?”
“This isn’t a museum,” she replies, not altogether rudely, even a little interested. Her moth-eaten stare seems to grow sharper like the shutter of a camera. “Besides, who could explain the entire history of rock and roll in under an hour?”
“Who says it’ll be under an hour?”
“Your suit, Mr Businessman. You look like the type of guy who pays extra for fancy PowerPoint templates.”
“I don’t,” Arkha says. “I pay for an assistant who makes them for me.”
She raises a curious eyebrow at him. “Oh you are up that corporate food chain, eh?”
Arkha shrugs, “I worked hard to get where I am. I’m guessing you did too.”
“What, working as an assistant in a secondhand store whose USP is pre-millennia nostalgia?”
“Sure. You seem to enjoy it well enough.”
“Enjoying doesn’t mean working hard.”
“I think that’s a pretty stupid thing to say.”
With a sigh, Tamsy tucks a strand behind her ear, and gestures around. “Over there are the vinyls, where you’ll find pretty much any artist with a slope to their name, though there are the more underground bands scourged and stocked by yours truly. Don’t go buying them unless you have a record player at home.”
“And if I buy one anyway?”
Her eyes slide onto him, “then you’re a poser.”
Arkha doesn't know what that means. He isn’t given a chance to ask, either, because she crosses the counter and drags him over to the vinyls, commencing what grows to be a twenty-minute monologue on the history of phonographs, 78 rpm records and compact discs.
Honestly, the words fall on a dizzy target. Tamsy’s voice is a lilting, lovely creek, huskier than a woman’s usually is, waxing and waning in cadence with the afternoon’s heartbeat. Who is Semiu again?
When she’s done, a hard look comes over Tamsy’s face, and for a terrifying second Arkha thinks she might quiz him—but instead a handful of CD albums are thrust into his arms.
Tamsy goes back to the counter and types his total into the register.
“So you’ve just made these purchases for me. Is this a daylight robbery?” Arkha chuckles. He picks up the top CD of the pile and flips it over. “Can't I at least get a discount?”
“Weren’t you the one who wanted to learn more about rock’n’roll?” She raises an eyebrow. “Don’t make a fuss now. These’ll not even dent your deep pockets, Mr. CEO.”
“Well you've caught me there,” Arkha pulls out his card and swipes it against the reader. “… So am I free to come back and give you my verdict?”
A flicker of something, a pink flaming something, swells behind Tamsy’s bottomless eyes, even as her face remains practiced and placid. “Sure. Just know we have a no-return policy.”
Arkha laughs. Tamsy doesn't reply. The burning garden of dust between them goldens up his confidence; he levels her with an unbreaking stare that’s been known for making the best men squirm.
“And will I always find you here?” He asks softly.
Tamsy does not squirm. “Most of the time.”
“Not always?”
“No.”
“Then it would be a shame if I came all the way and you weren’t around.”
“I guess so,” those downy eyelashes blink slow at him. “So you’re asking for my number?”
Arkha smiles, “Well, if you’d be fine with that.”
She accepts his phone wordlessly and fills in the contact details. Tamsy Caines. A nice name that rings like the twinge of a harp down his vertebrae. Thanking her, Arkha slides the phone back into his pocket, trying to conjure up a topic to keep from returning to work so soon.
He’s not so lucky, however. The tambourine above the door jingles; Arkha glances over his shoulder and locks eyes with—
“There you are, Boss!” It’s Semiu, disbelieving Semiu, with a look of scorn reserved for mothers having found their wandering child after an hour. The fear in Arkha is something solid that wedges into the space between his skin and bones. “Not answering my calls, texts, nothing. How the hell did you find yourself here?”
He tries to smile and feels instead the heat of her glare redouble. “No signal.”
“Then why,” she pinches the bridge of her nose, “did you not go look for some?”
Oh, she’s furious, all right. Worse, she’s frantic. Arkha feels a pang of regret at the image of her running around in circles trying to locate him; he who was busy trying to woo a cute girl at a vintage music store.
“… Wanna go get chai?” He learns quickly that that was the wrong thing to say. With her manicured hands locked around his wrists, Semiu mutters a world of grievances under her breath consisting of work and late and no better than a toddler, and Arkha is pulled towards the door before he can muster up a proper goodbye.
He glances back to see Tamsy already waving, expression crossed between mildly unimpressed and entertained.
“Until next time, I guess, Miss Caines?” Arkha is then yanked outside, though not before hearing Tamsy’s final words that send every blood cell of his up into eruption:
“Yeah, bye, you’d better come back once you’ve listened to the—Miss?!”