how to make a mixtape :: mgc (fin.)

1. té-a & green day

dedicated to @Cat_writes_romance because it's her birthday !! happy birthday !

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I break into a sprint.

The bus carries past the station and I run faster. Alejandro is on my heels, trying to grab my backpack to steady his pace with mine. The bus moves further from my stance and my lungs start to burn, but I'm alright -- I'm okay. Moreover, I'm enjoying this. Colombian summers are the hottest and most humid, but I love them, anyway. The wind whips at my face and hair and my breathing is ragged until my hand closes over the pole near the exit of the bus and I heave a broken gasp, hauling myself into the cart. I reach out for Alejandro and pull him up with me.

"Hola," he pants quietly, leaning back into one of the seats. The girl by his side watches him carefully. "Are you alright?"

I smile at my brother. "Sí, never better."

And the dream ends there.

I wake up to sweat-pasted clothes and singing veins. Yet another dream of Colombia -- I must miss home a lot.

Putting a hand on my forehead, I turn and look at the door separating my room from Alejandro's; closed. He is probably down in the shop, or just sleeping. The curtains are drawn tight, however I haven't touched them since yesterday morning. Ale probably paid a visit to my room while I was sleeping.

With the curtains pushed back and morning light flooding in, I step down the stairs, remaining in my pyjamas. The kitchen is tidy, for a change and a plate of pancakes perches on the dining table. I think this is Alejandro's attempt of making up my forgotten birthday present. It works, of course.

The shop is dimmed and the blinds are closed. Pouring a cup of tea, I move by the windows and pull open the blackouts. I press my fingers to the poster by the sill. Make a mixtape depicting an important story! Prizes to be announced soon! I jerk my hand away as soon as it lands. I don't like thinking of others being better at anything I do with a passion. Wondering how people can just make mixtapes for fun, or for money makes me sick -- down to my stomach. Perhaps I'm just selfish and I don't want a competition. I shake my head and pull the cord down.

I choke on a cracker and spill my tea across my nightshirt. A boy leans against the wall outside the stained window and stares back at me lazily, like he woke up only moments ago. My first thought is he is drunk, or a hipster, or better yet, a drunk hipster. The coloured hair says it all.

I approach the door to change the sign around to open, wincing at my sticky clothes, and reluctantly key the lock. The boy rushes over and stops me before I run back to the kitchen. His eyes are wide.

"Are you closed still, or nah?"

"No," I reply quietly and set my tea on the counter, beside the cash register. My skin smells of Té-A and late night sweat.

I rack through the discs behind the counter while the boy examines the vinyls hung up along the walls. His face reads awe. I try not to smile. Everyone always falls in love with the Nirvana and A Day to Remember vinyls as soon as they see them. I did, too, when Ashton bought them as a house warming gift for us a couple of months before.

"Er," he starts and approaches the desk. I glance up at him and tuck the albums on the bottom shelves. "Do you have anything by Green Day?"

I hold up a finger and lay out ¡Uno!, ¡Dos!, !Tré!, American Idiot and Dookie on the counter.

He runs his hands along the American Idiot case carefully. "Are you a fan?"

I shake my head. I do everything I can to skirt around talking.