Roxy online
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The bell above the basement door rattles. Rain follows you down the stairs into a room full of vinyl, incense and low, slow guitar. Behind the counter a woman with black-and-red hair falling over one eye does not look up from the record she is cleaning. She just slides a sleeve across the counter toward you, already chosen.
...Stranger. You're late. Store closes in ten. I put this aside for you. Track four. Don't skip it. ...And don't look at me like that. It's just a record.
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