la semilla de libertad

“Yeah, okay – yes, I love you too, dad. Goodbye,” Theo hung up the phone when he heard the loud clap of thunder above him, and he nearly jumped due to the surprise of it. “Shit,” he grumbled, and like the sky was laughing at him, the rain just started pouring down. He tried to hurry over towards the nearest shelter, nearly taking someone down as he jumped under an umbrella, “Fuck. Sorry,” he pushed his wet hair out of his face, “Nothing says Maine like a monsoon, right?”

How many times did he have to get taken by surprise before he wised up? Two months ago, it had been snowstorms slipping in through his open window, a fine dust of frost on his couch by the time he made it home from work. Wind that pressed through his too-thin jackets all those times he dressed for the sun and not the temperature -- and now, the downpour he didn’t see coming. 

Bet his Weather app had.

This was the trouble with towns, he thought -- this was one of the troubles, this was a trouble -- no metro to count on when he got rained out, just his squinting eyes at the water already pooling by the curbside, and eight more blocks ‘til home. He was starting to feel the wet through his shoes. He flexed his toes in them to make sure. Definitely getting there. So maybe he wasn’t wearing rain-clothes; he'd been able to dig an umbrella out of the library lost and found (he’d only very slightly had to lie), and the meager coverage was the best he was going to get. 

Which was why he wasn’t keen on sharing right away. Quino’s arm jerked at the intrusion, and for a blink or two, he waited to recognize the guy who’d jumped in. He didn’t. “It’s -- coming down, yeah,” he said. And that was self-explanatory, but the words gave him time to work the edge out of his voice; not everyone had umbrellas, not everyone had shelter. If he’d spent less time in Frey, he’d’ve remembered that. “I’m always getting stuck in it, too. Every time I think I’m saving the planet, walking... wind up soaked or freezing, or both. No good deed, I guess.” There was an awning ahead where they could regroup, and Quino raised his arm a little so the other guy didn’t have to crouch so much. “You been out there for long?” 

“Yeah. I took me ten years. It was just– really hard.” She shrugged, it’s half the reason she didn’t compete in the Olympics sooner. She couldn’t– she couldn’t pass the citizenship test, and that was one of the rules. You had to be a citizen of the country you wanted to compete for. And she could have just gone with Canada, that would have been easy– but it didn’t feel right. Sure, that’s where she was born, but in the long run, that’s all the country did for her. She learned all of stuff in the states, and the integral parts, so it seemed more appropriate. She just had the one big roadblock that was citizenship. And that wasn’t the most pleasant path. Each time she thought she was a step closer, something else popped up, and she had to push it, and when she finally got it– she had just wanted to never think about it again. 

“Yeah, I know.” She responded, trying to keep the sarcasm from her lips. He was treating her like she was an idiot. She didn’t appreciate it, but she could vaguely understand. She hadn’t set herself up in the best way. “Yeah, but not really. I don’t– it’s complicated.” He was right. She did, and she knew that, but that didn’t stop her from not participating in any of the elections. She still only voted for things in Canada. That felt natural, like she’d been making up for not living there. She was only here for one reason, and that wasn’t to vote and share in the American spirit. “I never said I was less than anyone else. Way to shove thoughts in my head.” She rolled her eyes, this time, she couldn’t help it. 

It was really hard. Quino nodded, his mouth a straight line -- even with permanent residency, even with the legality that’d fallen into his lap, his name had gone on a list, too. There was something kind of humiliating about living in a country that wouldn’t let you call it yours. Humiliating wasn’t the right word. It was close. And if this was all the solidarity he could get lately, he’d take it so he could keep talking like this, foot flat on the floor so he’d stay grounded while he thought it all through.

 Didn’t help. 

Her hostility came out of nowhere. Like he looked up from his beer and her voice was edged, and the edge pressed his eyebrows down, ‘cause a minute ago, this had almost been a pleasant conversation. “I’m not shoving thoughts in your head.” Quino knew he’d been polite, this time -- if not a little over-eager -- but now that she’d thrown that out, the rest came easier. “You're the one who said you’re not a citizen. My mistake for thinking you’re misinformed. You’re not. You’re just taking it for granted.”

“Me?” The brunette looked over at the man before shaking her head, “I’m not. I’m not a U.S. citizen.” She took a drink of her beer, not really expecting this line of questioning here, but she couldn’t stop it, not now. Probably not ever. “I mean, I guess I’m a dual citizen now, that was a fucking hard test, and really, I don’t even think it was worth it, but really, I’m not–” The girl paused, “Yeah, I’m not a U.S. citizen so I didn’t vote.” 

“You went through the process, too?” Never mind that she made it sound like parking registration, with all the reverence she was lacking -- or that she didn’t care about it, or think it was worth it, when he knew people whose names had been stuck on that list for years. That was hard to never mind, but never mind. Since moving north, most of Quino’s conversations about immigration had turned abstract: newspaper articles, case studies, political platforms. There weren’t a lot of stories anymore. 

Now, when his phone vibrated against the bar, he ignored the sound. “You know that means you can vote, right?" He thought they covered that in the naturalization process, but maybe you just have to want it enough to pay attention. “If you were naturalized, you’re a citizen now,” he explained. “You have all the rights that someone who was born here has. You’re no less than they are.” 

Before he could change his mind, Deirdre stepped into Quino’s apartment, awkwardly passing him the box when he reached for it, and headed straight to the kitchen. “Thank you so much for this. Really, I was ready to fight someone,” she called back to him. “Maintenance will be in on ‘Monday,’ but I’m not convinced they mean this month.”

Clearly, the first step - besides the mandatory joking about their shitty apartment staff - would be to see what she was working with. She bent down over the oven, fired it up, and opened the door to make sure it was heating up. This was an unusual step for her, but apparently, ovens were easier to break than she’d previously anticipated. When the heat clicked on and the oven started to warm like functioning ovens did, she smiled and set the temperature to preheat. So far so good, even if she looked a bit strange with her mistrust of appliances.

“Oh, hello, a chara,” she cooed when Gidget came to greet her. She crouched down to a more appropriate level for a cat, and scratched her behind the ears just the way she liked. Deirdre was much better friends with Gidget than she was with Quino. The cat seemed to make its way over to Deirdre’s fire escape, which was exclusively used to grow plants and as beloved a reading spot, as often as possible, and they had grown close over the three years they had each been in those apartments.

“How many kisses today, then?” she asked, leaning down to let the animal lick her face for as long as she wanted before she washed her hands to make the cake. Most likely due to the exorbitant amount of cat treats and human food she had been giving Gidget for as long as they had known each other, the cat was unabashedly affectionate toward her and it was always rewarded. An endless cycle of affection and reward.

When Quino started spouting off about cake, Deirdre really did try to hide her incredibly endeared smile, but it was little use. He wouldn’t remember the way her lips had quirked up when he spoke in two minutes, let alone the next time they saw each other. “Well, then. You won’t be saying that after tonight,” she teased as she started to gather up all the dry ingredients and measuring them into the large mixing bowl she’d brought with her. No recipe needed, not as long as she had half a brain to work with. She’d been making this particular cake for years and years. “I hope you don’t mind lemon or poppyseeds, love.”

People liked to say that animals could sense your nature. He was pretty sure people said that. And Quino wasn’t about to give Gidget credit for some sort of superintuition (she still hid from the vacuum cleaner) (she wasn’t a genius), but he’d give the idea a little leeway, maybe, when he saw how she was with Deirdre. He couldn't remember a time when his cat had even tried affection with him -- even when she was Michelle's cat, even when she was a kitten he'd come home to, one day, making a bed in his laundry. A surprise they'd fought about, back when their fights had looked that small. 

Point was (and there was a point, he thought, to all this thinking): there was an affection there that Quino didn’t have. And he didn’t know if it was because she felt a friendliness in Deirdre, or if it was just that he’d always discouraged getting his face licked (seriously, that was his mouth), but there was no question Gidget liked her better. That was alright. They didn’t have to be friends. 

“I thought this was some kind of emergency.” Someone’s birthday, or retirement, or something -- no room to share the finished product. Last-minute didn’t exactly lend itself to samples, but he stayed close, anyway, elbows locked behind him on the counter. This kitchen didn’t know anyone’s hands but his. “I mean, I’m happy to give you my stove. I just...”

He just hadn’t figured out the rush, yet. Quino and Deirdre were laundry friends -- acquaintances, maybe even, laundry acquaintances -- and he was glad for the company, if only because it meant he wouldn’t turn to bed in an hour or so. Smoking usually sent him sleepy. “I like poppy bagels,” he offered, tilting his head to show he was listening right. “But these aren’t even real bagels. Maine isn’t... New York, you know? You can’t remake it. You know?”

“Wha -” Ellie blinked and looked up from her book; honestly, reading at the Blackbird wasn’t the most productive but there was a leak at her house and she didn’t feel quite at home with Reina and Rafi, even though she’d lived with Michael for four years. “Election? Is that what you’re asking about?” While she did her civic duty and voted, she had never found politics particularly engaging, especially not at this point in the race. “I’m sort of waiting to see how things play out but I do like Bernie, I think. I’m - this is really terrible, I know, but I don’t really pay much attention to anything until it’s closer to time to make a decision. I’m sure as hell not voting for Trump though.”

If he’d registered that she was reading, he -- well, he probably would’ve talked, anyway. He could be in his apartment right now, listening to the tv from the kitchen, reheating the leftovers he hadn’t finished this afternoon. He wasn’t. Bars were social places, and Quino was aggressively social, when he wanted to be -- when he wanted to avoid being left alone with all this nervous energy. It took her a minute to look up from her book, and he tried to catch the title without looking like he was trying.

No luck.

“It’s not really terrible,” he said. “I mean, it’s... a little terrible, but there’s nothing wrong with wanting to be informed before you make a choice. Picking a President’s not like picking a car.” Brand loyalty didn’t seem like a bad thing when the bandwagon was voting the right way, but that wasn’t always the case. “But it’s a good time to start caring, with the primaries. Sanders won’t get the nomination if all his supporters stay home. He’s counting on kids your age, especially.” She looked barely old enough to drink.

Sipping her glass of white wine, Peyton had her eyes on her phone. Snapchat, Facebook, Instagram, she had to see it all. When it came to the Presidential elections, she had a few thoughts about it, but they were never strong. Of course, she hated Trump for all the right reasons, but other than that, she just paid attention to it for her own amusement. Hearing the man’s words beside her, she gave him a look and nodded. “I can’t agree more,” she replied, taking another sip of her wine. “If that happens, Canada’s going to need to expand more and pretty much take up the whole world.” She chuckled softly, now letting her attention fully setting on him. “I’m actually not voting this year and won’t know when I really will. I’m not that into it.” She said, shrugging. “How about yourself?”

Her laugh was small, but it didn’t go unnoticed; if people were mostly happy, Quino kept meeting the wrong ones, because just about everyone he ran into came off more bitter than bright. Maybe it was the bar. Maybe it was the town – or maybe it was just him, though he was willing to bet it wasn’t. She laughed. He smiled, half his mouth, and thumbed a spot of foam from the rim of his glass.

The pleasantness was short-lived. She continued, and suddenly he was dropping it again in all his incredulity, quick blinks, trying not to shake his head. “No,” he said, “you have to vote. You should do it every year – but especially now, with an incumbent stepping down.” He kept the edge out of his voice, but this was all matter-of-fact, for Quino; he held eye contact so she knew this was serious. Not dire yet. Still serious. “Are you registered?”

he’d answered in turn, remarking on warmth and effectively concluding that string of conversation, & in the ensuing silence, a part of stephanie felt more at home. sure, there was the added, thin layer of anxiety from having another person in the car that distorted her consciousness – the sudden hyper-awareness that she ought to drive as safely as possible, further reminding her that she only got her license less than a year ago (a detail she figured was worth omitting) – but her white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel relaxed as the music progressed. her eyes fixated on the road, and though she had to force herself to concentrate on the music, joaquín’s presence beside her and its added tension soon distilled until he was nothing. forgettable, even; though there still remained that fraction of her peripheral vision that watched him – the fraction that bit into her lip as the pencils had scattered across his lap.

in a split-second glance, driving down the road, she was able to notice details that ordinarily would have escaped her: the soft, misty halo around the street lamps, an overturned garbage can in the alley beside a burger joint, the small dent near the license plate of a silver ford fiesta. even the sight of her hands before her, almost birdlike, blue and numb, unable to grip so well anymore. noticing these things kept the world somewhat dreamlike, which was what stephanie felt she needed — it kept things from becoming too real, too fast, as thoughts floated through her mind. it was routine, her and this mental metronome. predictable, marching her forward and keeping time. she could hear, betwixt the radio’s melody and her own absent hum emanating from within her ribcage, the tick of another missed beat & in the silence between joaquín’s breath and her own, she awaited the next tick. constant, reliable, like the noise of an intermittently dripping faucet; dripping in her vision like thick fog in moments she wanted to be still.

it may have just been having another body in the car that so consistently brought her in and out of this cognizance, attention alternating between violins and his voice a moment later, but the subconscious desire to both forget him entirely and initiate some sort of verbal exchange came and went. as the opening strains of a piece by clara schumann came through the speakers, stevie let out an involuntary sigh – likely directed at joaquín, for breaking the silence she’d been previously trying to lose herself in. yet with his words came a welcome relief, stark in contrast against the once more encroaching feeling of judgment— of being judged. it could be argued (strongly) that she was too sensitive, or that she constantly misinterpreted tone and word choice into her own distortion. perhaps it was just the fact that the questions came from joaquín that so immediately brought on the need to bite her tongue. to give way to true emotion, to have a real moment with him, meant disregarding her already ingrained impression of him. & so she did. for art’s sake.

even as her mouth opened to respond, stevie found herself at a loss for words. her eyes went from the road to his hands for a suspended moment; watching as his thumbnail scraped against the pencil he still held, noticing the soft edges to his knuckles. her thoughts went over what he’d said – nobody’s museum-level in college, how do you grade a sketchbook – and in the pause she had to take to consider her own response, she thought only of art’s dictionary definition: the expression or application of human creative skill and imagination, producing works to be appreciated primarily for their beauty or emotional power. & she thought of how nothing defined art; not even that technical, broad statement. it was both true and untrue; both dead and alive until observed— which was exactly what her point came down to. she’d get to it after a bit of indulgence, as her tone took on the guise of retrospection before something more curious, even matter-of-fact settled in – suitable for explanation.

     ❛       well, my opinion could wreak havoc on a student’s grade, so i don’t think about my feelings at all. i generally have two methods: the rubric system, or a grading guide. i’ll either incorporate a strict rubric with a general outline of what standards a piece must meet, which is a more straightforward way to turn in a-grade work. with a grading guide, i offer a student the chance to self-evaluate, which is  important for their personal development as an artist. they grade themselves, and i consider their notes or views as i grade them. it lets them know why they received the mark and how to improve upon it for the next assignment. – i’m guessing you asked because you saw my own on the floor. you can look through ‘em, if you’d like.

     ❛       but to further answer your question… have you ever heard of my bed by tracey emin? it was a work exhibited in the tate gallery, & it was literally just the artist’s bed with, essentially, junk around it. inspired by a period of days she’d spent lying in bed consuming nothing but alcohol and accumulating nothing but trash… condoms, stains, cigarette butts… you name it. it’s been called out as a shameful piece of art, and yet even in that critique it’s still defined as art. someone, anyone, could’ve put their bed on display, dumped trash ‘round it, and called it art. but tracey emin did it first.

just like that, once she’d begun, stevie felt herself get carried away – it’d always been difficult to get her to stop when passion ebbed and flowed. as she went on, signaling to merge into another lane, she even felt her voice soften; thoughts cooling from their earlier beats. silence, now. the comfortable kind. a warmth she could settle into indefinitely; a warmth she’d lost when joaquín had asked for a ride, and a warmth she’d just regained now that he’d prompted it to return. she’d speak with her hands if she didn’t feel the need to keep them both on the wheel.

     ❛       which leads me to ask: what constitutes as museum-level art? i mean… there’s not necessarily a technical difference between a gallery and a museum, unless you consider the fact that museums generally exhibit items of historical significance – even that’s not the case for all of them. i apologize for answering your question with a question, & considering it’s difficult to give a straightforward answer, i feel i should apologize twice.

     ❛       but that’s exactly what this boils down to: subjectivism, beauty in the eye of the beholder. i think that’s what you were initially referring to… how do i grade sketchbooks when all of art is subjective? we as humans have a natural tendency to see our subjective opinions as objective truths. it’s why critics give theirs factually, and it’s why we’re often not so easily swayed. there’s no external, universal truth. reality is what we perceive to be real.

     ❛       that’s all sort of why i love art… nothing’s concrete & everything’s ever-changing. i don’t see the same things you do, because i’m not looking through your eyes, so it’s not one thing to one person all of the time, et cetera, et cetera… i feel free, finally. do you know what i mean?

For a couple of minutes, she had him. Held him, even — his attention, all this staccato talking starting to seem like conversation, Quino’s shoulder lifting off the window behind him so he could face her better. It had been a genuine question, and she answered it genuinely enough. Rubrics and sliding scales. And he was thinking about his conversations with math professors (chemistry) (spanish), about how he was lucky to have leniency, sometimes, in how he judged someone else’s work. There were wrong answers in the humanities, but he got to pick what they were. And still, there were bad grades just for bad memory or MLA format. And she had self-evals.

With anyone else, it would’ve read as weakness. Maybe it was supposed to read even more so, with her — he still said her name like an extra in an ER scene, paging Dr. Edwards — but her voice was clear despite the strings humming the door-speaker against his sleeve. He raised his hand to the heating vent again, and his skin came away warm. Quino hadn’t thought of looking through the sketchbooks on the floor. When she offered, he shook it off.

And then she switched her answer to a lecture, and he was reaching between his ankles for the first one he could grab.

He’d never been to The Tate, okay? What was that, London? — he’d never been north of Maine, farther East than… well, Maine — Quino pressed his tongue into molars and shifted and tried not to make a list in his head of all the ways he was cultured, too, more than she was, more than most. Don’t let it be about that. Not when it could be about this, instead: the book in his lap, the cover that wouldn't close for all the puckered pages underneath. He tucked his seatbelt behind his back so he could sit sideways, angling to catch the streetlamps outside. Every few seconds, the car lit up. Like trying to read in a thunderstorm, Quino’s shadow disappearing in the dark spaces between.

The thing about art is it makes you aware. Stephanie was still talking. He turned a page and sand sprinkled onto his slacks. So he was more careful with the next one. She’d left half a thumbprint in the corner, smaller than his (and why wouldn’t it be?), but her fingers were clean where they folded around the steering wheel — and for the second time that night, Quino swallowed the word sorry. This was more interesting than opening his mouth, anyway. There were people in here, taped-down pictures, smudged shading, a whole page on just hands, whole pages of the same body posed and posed again.

You can't give a grade for something like this. He didn't care what she said.

It took him a beat to notice that the last silence wasn’t just her catching her breath. Quino had picked up some of the words, as she’d gone on — enough to get her general idea, definitely enough to get her general tone — but every time he looked up to check in, Stephanie looked less like a person he wanted to listen to. He might’ve gone another few minutes without saying anything, if not for the space between songs; suddenly, the page made a sound when he turned it, and he lifted his head to blink. “Yeah,” he said. “I mean, I...” She'd been talking. He closed the book on his knee. "I don't see that. Nothing's left up to -- I don't know, interpretation -- not all the way. That's just something people say to make themselves feel better for disagreeing with everyone else." Okay, right; now he was filling in the blanks. It had been touch-and-go, for a minute there. "Art's supposed to mean something. Or make you feel something, maybe -- make a lot of people feel something. My step-brother has his kid's doodles on his desk, but that doesn't meant they should be in a gallery. One guy saying this is art doesn't make it matter."

Aurora, for once in her life, had a night off, but her friend had dragged her straight back into her place of work, begging her for a night out and saying that she needed a drink desperately. Aurora had reluctantly obliged, ordering a glass of red wine and watching silently as her pretty blonde friend made her way around the pub, flirting with pretty boys and girls as Aurora sat amongst other bored and weary inhabitants of the pub.

Raising a dark eyebrow as the pretty-faced man sitting next to her suddenly declared that this (whatever this was) was ridiculous, she crossed her legs and gave him a confused look until he elaborated and she finally smiled, aware of her shoulder brushing against his but not really caring. After all, he was cute. “Probably Sanders. What about you?”

”That’s the right answer,” he said, with a point and a small nod. People talked about politics like it was a subjective thing -- and he saw that it was, up against mathematicians and physicists -- but Quino couldn’t agree all the way. There was a sort of middle ground. Like history: one true story, bent to fit whatever lens you tell it through. 

Quino didn’t pretend to be lens-free. He was just pretty sure his got closest to the truth.

“If you have to vote Democrat -- even just for the primary -- then you should be voting Sanders.” They were close enough to keep his voice low, despite the Blackbird’s Saturday night playlist, and that meant less gesturing, his chin in his palm. “The Party won’t back him ‘cause they're scared he can’t be bought. That’s why he’s slipping. The Republicans are doing the same thing to Trump, except they’ve been courting the angry white vote forever, so he fits right in line with the people. His people, anyway.” 

Piper hadn’t been this drunk in a while. She knew the feeling would only last for a little while, the distance from herself and the delay in everything, and then she’d come down, so she was going to enjoy it while it lasted. Her emotions were everywhere though, and she couldn’t help feeling a little guilt for taking Quino’s shot from him. His alcohol child. She kidnapped it, and he was never going to get it back. Ever. What had she done? 

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” she murmured, barely audible. Just as she had the passing thought to just call the authorities, turn herself in, and get it over with, the idea of simply buying Quino another shot took over. Get it together, Piper.

Motioning for the bartender to come over, Piper grinned happily at her, “Could I have a water and another alcohol baby- uh, a shot of w-well tequila, neat… please.” She mentally applauded herself for not slurring during the entire sentence, proud. Both liquids were for her friend, considering he’d probably need the water after the tequila as much as she was going to need her water now. Scooping it towards her like poker chips upon winning a round, she cupped both hands around the glass, lips prodding around until the straw found its way in between them. She drew some water up, a little at a time, keeping the straw in her mouth like she needed a constant IV drip of H2O.

The shot and water she ordered found its way on the counter, in addition to her new bill, and Piper thumbed through her wallet to pull more than enough change to cover it, with a generous tip. She was always a good tipper, mostly due to the fact that her best friend was a server, so she knew what their lives were like, but also because her mother was terribly rude to the service industry, and Piper felt like she needed to monetarily make up for it.

“My week was…” Piper paused, sipping more water. “Terrible,” she said, lips over straw. “Gio quit as a manager, so I’m left to cover all of his shifts… and the customers at the Inn are just annoying. This guy complained to me because our Wifi was too s-strong and gave him a headache.. and he asked me to turn it off in his room s-so he could get some rest. Liiike, what..” her words dragged on for longer than they should have, but remembering the customer made her laugh.

His loss? Quino squinted at her incredulously, leaning again so he could make sure he’d heard her right – but Piper was already on to the next thing: the bartender, her voice already blurring (was that him or her?), her smile broad and bright. He’d drank with Piper before. He knew her, by now, even just a little bit, and he knew she made a pretty good listener for his Wednesday night complaints. He’d had drinks with Piper, sure. But he’d never seen her this drunk.

At least they were still somewhere in the innocent phase. She was trying to find the straw in her water glass, and Quino was hiding his laugh in a breath, because telling drunk people they’re funny is like telling someone their accent shows on just this one word: once they’re conscious of it, it changes. That was observation bias, right? The woman with the gorillas? He couldn’t remember, now. He blinked hard to shake it off, and in the brief stutter of his closed eyes, Quino recognized that he was getting drunk, too. 

When had that happened?

“That’s where tin-foil hats come from,” he said. It sounded abrupt even to him, and he extended a hand like an explanation, palm flat towards the ceiling. “You know, conspiracy people? Tin-foil hats?” Theorists. It was conspiracy theorists. Quino pulled his own water closer, and left the shot on the bartender’s side of the counter. That was a bridge to cross when – well, whenever his tongue felt a little less dry. “People who think radio-waves – or Wifi, or Bluetooth, now, I guess – they think they’re gonna hurt their brains, so they make these hats… And now it’s just another name for conspiracy theorists, even though they’re not at all related, most of the time. I mean, I’ve been called a tin-foil hat. I don’t believe in conspiracies. I definitely don’t think putting aluminum on my head will stop the government from reading my mind.”

“I have to. I have to? Okay, I’ll play. I’d marry… Marry the couples’ counselor, ‘cause you have to be really perfect to tell other people how to fix their lives. I’d sleep with -- one person? -- Aurora. She bartends at the Blackbird. And I guess I’d kill... I don’t really want to kill anyone, but I’d probably be okay with Dr. Stephanie Edwards catching the flu, or something else mostly harmless. Back at work in a couple of days, no big deal.” 

“Well, I moved to Maine.”

”Between the World and Me. I know it’s been talked about a lot, but that’s all well-deserved. Really. I’ve been thinking about picking up a class on race politics next year, and that would be – I mean, absolutely required reading.” 

He was getting off-topic. Quino gave himself a minute to remember the rest of the question, smile slipping in the beat. “And the last movie I watched was… Groundhog Day. Again. It showed up on Netflix, and I couldn’t say no.” 

A soft breath escaped Lucy’s lips, her eyes scanning the unfamiliar area around her. The quiet, soft sounds of various businesses seemed odd to the young woman, although it felt weirdly comforting as well. She never knew that her own mother would bring here to a place like this, the areas that they would go to were much more scummy, more out of place than this. Maybe this place had some potential for Lucy to belong somewhere? The blue haired girl laughed at herself, letting out a soft chuckle to herself as she walked by various, tight-linked businesses, noticing a few people glance at her with a curious look. She was used to the looks, of course, the hair, outfits, and her overall appearance made people believe she was born in another world. Lucy didn’t mind that sometimes, although when someone would tell her to go back where she came from, that made her upset all the time. 

‘It’s okay, Lu…You got this. You can make this work. Just find a place that you can go to for comfort here…If there is even such a place…’ Lucy thought harshly to herself as her boot covered feet made their way down one street, her eyes slowly glancing at the window of a shop, records upon records hanging and placed everywhere.

‘Loops…Interesting name…’ Her mind spoke and she felt her feet slowly come to a halt in front of the store, her lips spreading into a childish smile. Lucy let herself walk inside, closing her eyes for a moment and taking a deep breath, the lovely aromas of records filling her nostrils. She felt peace fill her bones, her feet moving to a pile of records, her fingers tracing over the cover material. 

“This is heaven…” Lucy whispered, beginning to slowly look through the pile, although the sudden feeling of a pair of eyes made her pause her actions. Her cheeks quickly rushed into a crimson color, eyes staring at the pile of records. “I- It’s not very polite to stare at a stranger…” She spoke with her usual soft voice, swallowing hard as she waited for a reply. 

The only downside to ignoring your niece’s Facebook request: when she turns fourteen, you’ll be the only asshole who misses the birthday notification.

This was the second year in a row. “It’s not like Easter,” his step-brother had said this morning, voice fuzzy through the speakerphone and the sweater Quino was pulling over his head. “The date doesn’t move on you. You don’t have to do any math.” They’d had this conversation before -- he’d had this conversation with a lot of people, really, too many HAPPY BELATED notes with his name at the bottom -- but that didn’t make it any more painless. Adults in their thirties should be able to wait a couple of days for a present without getting their feelings hurt, sure. But he remembered being fourteen. How easy it was to feel overlooked.

Loops wouldn’t have been his first call for a present, but all Isaac could suggest was records, and he wasn’t about to give Amazon any more of his money than he had to. It was better this way, anyway; even with a later shipping date, hand-picked meant personalized, a letter he could write himself. It meant that once he figured out how to navigate the counters full of vinyl, he might be able to get this right. The trouble was in the navigating. 'Cause Quino didn’t even have a record player, but five minutes in the store, and he’d already made his way to the post-punk section -- like he blinked and he teleported, seriously, like he’d been compelled. He had no reason to believe Olivia shared his taste in music. This was all for him, the cardboard covers soft with age as he flipped through them. 

He would’ve forgotten all about his niece, and her birthday, and the ticking clock -- he might’ve gone home with something just so he could hang it on his wall, if the door-mounted bell hadn’t rung between songs. When he’d come in, there was only one other person in the store; now there was a third, and Quino looked up from liner notes to see a shock of blue hair making its way through the stacks. Maybe she was right. Maybe he did stare -- he liked to think of himself as unintrusive, but other people kept proving him wrong. “Shit, I’m sorry.” She was barely audible under the music, and the speakers weren’t exactly loud. “I didn’t mean anything by it. You’re just -- you look blissed-out, and I’m... overwhelmed? The good kind of overwhelmed.” Quino shook his head, offering a gentle smile as an apology for whatever wandering his eyes might’ve done. “I’m on birthday duty,” he explained. “You don’t work here, do you?”