The Record Shop – Part 2: B-Side

The next Friday, Emil bought a record. It was the blue album with the torn corner, the one Lotte had played for him, and he paid for it in exact change, counting out the coins on the counter with great seriousness.

"You're finally a customer," said Lotte.

"I'm a regular now," said Emil. "A regular who pays."

"That's the worst thing you've ever said to me."

"It's very honest," said Emil, and tucked the record under his arm.

He did not leave straight away. He stood by the window, watching the rain on the street and the lights of the U-Bahn station across the road, and Lotte pretended to organise the shelves.

"Can I ask you something?" he said.

"Yes."

"What's the first record you ever bought?"

Lotte laughed, surprised. "A Nina Hagen album. I was fourteen. I hid it under my mattress for a month because I was scared my mother would find out."

"Did she?"

"She found it and played it in the kitchen while she cooked," said Lotte. "She said it was loud and wicked and she didn't want me to be ashamed of loving it."

Emil turned to look at her, his face softened.

"Then your mother is my hero," he said.

"She'd like you. She'd make you do the washing up."

"I'm very good at washing up."

"Are you?"

"No," said Emil, and smiled. "But I'd like to learn, if you'll teach me."

They spent the evening talking, sitting on the stools behind the counter with two cups of cheap tea and a stack of records between them. He told her about the engineering job he had left in Hamburg, the apartment that always smelled of rain, the friends who had stopped calling. She told him about the first Christmas after her father died, when the only music in the house was that blue album, played so loudly the neighbours complained.

"Can I ask you something else?" said Emil, when the rain had stopped.

"Yes."

"Would you come with me to the Friday market on Sunday? I'll buy you a record, and you'll tell me if it's terrible."

Lotte smiled. "Yes," she said. "But only if you promise to let me pick the record, and you promise not to order an obscure album I've never heard of."

"Deal," said Emil. "Can I kiss you now? Before the shop closes and we both pretend we have somewhere else to be?"

"Yes," said Lotte. "And if I say stop, you have to listen to the entire Nina Hagen album without complaining."

"That's cruel," said Emil, and leaned in.

He kissed her slowly, the taste of cheap tea and rain between them, his hand warm against her cheek. Lotte's fingers found the lapels of his coat and held on, steady and sure. Somewhere behind them, the old turntable clicked and hummed in the quiet.

When they parted, both of them were smiling.

"Green?" he asked.

"Green," said Lotte. "Very green. Now put the record back on, Emil, and let's finish the side together."

"I'd like that," said Emil, and they sat back down on the stools, side by side, listening to the rest of the album while the shop lights glowed warm against the dark Berlin street.