we used to sit against the plate glass covered in flyers window of the record shop and listen to records with the door open, watching people across the parking lot, smoking cigarettes laced with pot, talking about the men we loved, and wishing we weren't the most underpaid record store clerks in the world. we used to call jay up on the other side of town and make him tell us stories about boston, about bands, about anything, he used to tell us about mission of burma and the paradise and how much we'd love it there. we used to dream out loud a million miles an hour and eat hummus and cucumber sandwiches, vegetarian by poverty, not by choice. we used to try to read each other's lips as the other one made nonsensical faces on the other side of the two way glass, and remind each other that a burning cherry does show up on the other side of that false mirror. we used to walk around barefoot so much in that store that the soles of our feet would turn black and i'd put out cigarettes with my bare feet. we used to wear band t-shirts every day and rock pig tails, jeans and tennis shoes with holes in the sides and boy's names near the laces. we'd have break downs and triumphs in ten minute spans and top it all off by running off some crazy honky who'd just tried to sell us stolen merch from the latest walmart theft. we used to bitch about the air conditioning in the summer and freeze our asses off in the winter, sometimes it would rain on our heads inside the store, oozing down the walls at breakneck pace, headed for the closest record marked for aquatic ruin. we used to save records for boys we liked to kiss late at night after band practice, before band practice, any time at all and glow when they'd grace our doorstep. we used to call them before we opened just to hear their voices. we used to dance after we'd locked the doors and turn up the music at the end of the day. we used to plan parties and shows and bands and monumental things. we used to work in a record store.