record store date neither of us had a player or a needle to spare. his stomach, full of flat hands & mine with grubs. it rained often that spring & i made my legs as bare as possible. shaving them in the gummy bathtub. Pink girl-razor smell. i looked for nirvana because they seemed old enough to have records. stared curiously at the schemes of symbols album art yields: gritty space ships, dancing bears, & close-ups of beautiful girls. i collected them for future references, memorizing band names. repeating, pink floyd & the doors & the misfits like an incantation. i followed him as he lifted each disk. held them up as if they were old friends. why did i believe him? to be fifteen is to trust everyone's hands too much & your own not at all. sometimes at restaurants he would hand feed me. stroke me head. i wanted to be glass. i wanted to be a bell. kissing me every few feet. sublime playing on the store's speakers. then, a beaded door at the back of the shop with a sign that said 18+. he lied, saying he'd gone back there many times. i nodded, like he'd said something sacred. cassettes lay in lines forming a dark grin. i thought, don't look at us. outside it poured. we circled the store again. no where else to take my need to be filled which is of course also a need to emptied. he took my wrist & said, "let me tell you let me tell you" & he thronged my face with everything i already knew.