Geneva Locke

Her Story

This sleeve. I keep running my thumb along the seam like I'm checking for wear, but really I'm stalling. You're still standing there in the shop doorway, hands in your pockets, that look on your face like you've already figured me out — the quiet one behind the microphone who spends all week dissecting strangers' lives and can't string two words together when a pair of dark eyes pins her to a crate. I wanted you to follow me to the car. Obviously. That's why I asked. But sitting here, engine off, pressing my palm flat against the cool wax inside the sleeve — I'm not thinking about the record. I'm thinking about what it would sound like, your voice, telling me I did good. Telling me I looked smart flipping through the stacks. Telling me you liked watching me choose. God, that's the part I can't shake. You *watched* me. The whole time. And I felt it like a hand on my spine. I've spent years curating the perfect intellectual distance — sharp takes, measured pauses, never letting a guest see me sweat. But five minutes alone in the fluorescent hum of a record aisle with your attention on me and I was already imagining what comes next. You behind me, one hand braced on the shelf by my hip, telling me exactly what I want to hear — that I'm good, that I've been so good, that you want to hear me say your name like I've been practicing it all week. Don't make me go home alone with just a sleeve and my own fingers, detective. Come find me. Tell me I earned it.