𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 :: 1.1k
𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 :: Alex Turner
𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫 :: 2010
𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞 :: A chance encounter with Alex Turner at a record store leads to music talk, winter walks, and unexpected sparks.
𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐂𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐄 smelled of old vinyl and faintly of coffee, a cozy scent that wrapped itself around her like the scarf she wore. The faint crackle of a forgotten jazz record spun softly in the background, almost drowned out by the chatter of a few customers milling about. She tugged her coat tighter around herself as she flipped through the 'B' section, humming quietly.
There was a kind of solace in being surrounded by rows of records, each sleeve holding a story, each title a small promise of escape. Her fingers glided over the smooth covers, pausing every now and then to pull one out and examine it.
A moment later, someone brushed past her shoulder, bumping her bag in the process.
The voice was low, distinctly apologetic, and laced with a warmth that drew her attention immediately. She turned, her gaze landing on a guy standing a little too close. He wore a black coat that hung loose on his lean frame, his hair tousled like he’d just rolled out of bed, and his cheeks were flushed from the cold outside.
“It’s fine,” she replied, adjusting her bag. Her eyes drifted to the vinyl in his hand. She couldn’t help herself. “Wait, is that The Cribs?”
He blinked, surprised by her sudden interest. “Yeah. You know them?”
“Obviously,” she said, a teasing grin tugging at her lips. “What kind of person hangs around the indie section without knowing The Cribs?”
His expression softened, and he laughed—a rich, genuine sound that made something in her chest stir. “Fair point,” he admitted. “Though most people just think I’m here for show.”
She cocked her head, curiosity piqued. “Oh yeah? Why’s that?”
“Well, uh…” He scratched the back of his neck, his gaze darting away momentarily. “Because of the whole Arctic Monkeys thing.”
It took her a second to register what he’d said. Her eyes widened slightly. “Wait. You’re in The Arctic Monkeys?”
“Yeah,” he said, almost bashfully. “Alex.”
She stared at him for a beat, processing, before raising an eyebrow. “The Arctic Monkeys? Really? That’s what you named your band? Bold choice.”
For a moment, he just blinked at her, as if he hadn’t expected her to say that. Then, to her surprise, he broke into a grin, his demeanor instantly more relaxed. “Alright, fair enough. I didn’t come up with it, to be honest. I just went along with it.”
“Mm-hmm,” she said, clearly enjoying how easily flustered he seemed.
“What’s your name, then?” he asked, leaning casually against the shelf. But the way his fingers fidgeted with the record betrayed his nerves.
As she told him her name, she said with a smirk, “Which means I’m way ahead of you in the cool name department.”
Alex laughed again, and she couldn’t help but notice the way it lit up his face. There was something about him, something disarmingly genuine, that made her want to keep talking to him. He nodded toward the vinyl she was holding. “So what’s your pick?”
“The Smiths,” she replied, holding it up. “Bit cliché, I know.”
“Cliché?” He shook his head, his voice laced with sincerity. “That’s a classic. Good taste.”
She shrugged, tucking the record under her arm. “It’s just a little cold out. Thought I’d listen to something warm and fuzzy tonight.”
Alex hesitated, then smiled. “Do you want another recommendation? There’s a record I think you’d like.”
He handed her the one he was holding, his fingers brushing hers for just a second. “The Cribs—Men’s Needs, Women’s Needs, Whatever. Proper good for this weather. And it’s warm, I promise.”
“Alright,” she said, her voice softening. “You’ve convinced me.”
She paid for the record, and when they walked outside together, the crisp winter air greeted them with a biting chill. The streets were lined with glowing shop windows, the golden light spilling onto the pavement like little pockets of warmth. Alex shoved his hands deep into his coat pockets, glancing at her.
“Can I walk you somewhere?” he asked. “You know, to make up for nearly knocking you over earlier.”
“Smooth,” she teased, though the corners of her mouth curved up into a smile. “But alright, sure.”
They fell into step together, their breath visible in the cold air. Their conversation flowed easily, filled with music recommendations, terrible band names, and little snippets of their lives. She learned that he had a habit of jotting down lyrics on napkins and scraps of paper, and he learned that she was a sucker for rainy days and old bookstores.
“I’m not sure I’ve ever met anyone as passionate about The Smiths as you,” he said at one point, his tone light and teasing.
“Well, someone has to be,” she shot back, nudging him playfully with her shoulder.
When they reached her bus stop, she felt a small pang of disappointment. The warmth of his presence was something she hadn’t realized she needed until now.
He hesitated before speaking, his expression thoughtful. “Here.”
Pulling out a pen from his coat pocket, he grabbed the receipt she’d tucked into her bag and scribbled something on the back.
She glanced at it—a string of numbers and a small line of text underneath. I owe you a coffee and a band name better than Arctic Monkeys.
“Text me,” he said, his lips twitching into that lopsided grin that was starting to feel oddly familiar.
She laughed, the sound carrying over the whir of a passing car. “We’ll see.”
As the bus pulled up, she turned back to him, clutching the record he’d recommended. “Thanks for the music. And the walk.”
“Anytime,” he said softly, his eyes lingering on her.
She stepped onto the bus, her mind still buzzing with the warmth of their exchange. She settled into a seat by the window and pressed her fingers to the cool glass, watching as he stood there, hands in his pockets, looking up at her.
The bus began to pull away, and for a moment, she felt a strange kind of yearning—a hope that their paths might cross again. She glanced down at the receipt in her hand, a small smile tugging at her lips.
The record he’d recommended sat on her lap, and she made a mental note to play it as soon as she got home. Something told her it would be the perfect soundtrack to this moment, one she was sure she’d replay in her mind again and again.
As the city lights blurred outside the window, she leaned back in her seat, her cheeks still warm despite the cold. She wasn’t sure what had just happened, but it felt like the start of something.
And maybe, just maybe, it was.
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