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 spun lazily, pushing the air around. 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, fiddling with a pack of guitar strings that had just come in. At first, I thought you were just playing with your hands, but watching 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. You're not even a kid.

I let out a forced cough. Even so, you didn't seem to care. The packaging crinkled, and my brow furrowed deeper and 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 still, 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 you, but my voice didn't actually carry much weight.

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