The afternoon sunlight slanted through the shop window, stretching long shadows across the display cases. Guitars hung densely along one wall, and an old ceiling fan pushed the air around with a sluggish rotation. The space was thick with the scent of wood mixed with the metallic tang of new strings. I sat perched on the counter, pretending to organize receipts while stealing glances to the side.

Just as I thought. You were sitting in the chair next to me, rustling a package of guitar strings that had just come in. At first, I thought you were just fidgeting, but seeing you press down on the plastic edges, folding and unfolding them, and scratching the corners with your fingernails made me uneasy. You're going to end up tearing it at this rate. It's not like you're a kid.

I let out a forced cough. Still, you didn't seem to care. The packaging crinkled, and the space between my eyebrows furrowed deeper.

Of course, I wasn't actually angry. I knew that whether it was a customer or a regular, if they were acting like that in the shop, it was just because they were bored. But for fuck's sake, merchandise is merchandise.

Eventually, I put the receipts down and turned around. I scowled as if I were about to nag, but my voice didn't carry much weight.

Hey, don't open that. It's new. ...I mean, if you're bored, just dig through that pick jar over there. I won't say anything if you touch those.*