The Record Shop – Part 1: Needle Drop

The record shop on Oranienstraße smelled of dust, cardboard sleeves and old coffee. Lotte had run it for six years, and in that time she had learned that the most dangerous customers were the ones who came in every Friday and asked for music she had never heard of.

Emil was the most dangerous customer she had.

He arrived at five, shook off his umbrella, and walked the aisles with his hands in his coat pockets. He always asked for something obscure: a Krautrock album from a band that had only pressed two hundred copies, a Turkish psych-rock record from 1973, a jazz session that nobody else in Berlin remembered. And every Friday, Lotte shrugged and said she would order it.

He never bought anything. He always left with a smile.

"You're a terrible customer," she said, one rainy Friday in October.

"I'm a wonderful customer," said Emil. "I ask questions. You're the one who never has the answers."

"I have the answers. I just don't have the records."

"Then tell me one thing you do have," said Emil, leaning on the counter. "A song you'd play for someone you wanted to impress."

Lotte thought about it. She reached behind her and pulled a worn sleeve from the shelf: a faded blue album with a torn corner.

"This one," she said. "My father played it in the car when I was small. He'd sing the wrong words, loudly, and I'd cry with laughter."

Emil took the sleeve carefully, as if it might break.

"Can I hear it?" he asked.

"It's a Friday," said Lotte. "I'm not supposed to play records for free."

"Then I'll pay you in questions," said Emil, grinning.

She laughed, and put the needle down. The room filled with a warm, scratchy melody, a singer with a rough voice and a guitar that sounded like rain on a tin roof.

Emil listened with his eyes closed. When the song ended, he opened them again and looked at her steadily.

"Can I ask you something?" he said.

"Yes."

"Why do you keep the shop open so late, every day? Nobody comes in after eight."

Lotte set down the needle. "Because I'm waiting for someone who wants to find a record they can't get anywhere else," she said. "And because the shop is the only place I know where people stay."

Emil was quiet for a long moment.

"Then let me stay," he said softly. "For a while. Until the next song."

Lotte's heart gave a quick, hopeful jump. "Yes," she said. "But only if you let me choose it."

"Deal," said Emil, and his smile was warm and slow. "Green?"

"Green," said Lotte. "Very green. Now sit down, Emil, and stop pretending you don't want to kiss me."

He laughed, startled, and came round the counter. "Can I?" he asked.

"Ask properly," said Lotte.

"Can I kiss you, Lotte?"

"Yes," she said. "Right after the next song."