Secondhand Girlfriend

.11

My niggas make they money just to spend it, 'cause when you die you cannot take it with you.

Thanks to Lisanna, I have now started listening to Fetty Wap. Now here I am dancing around the empty record store with his voice sounding in my ears. With fifteen minutes before I clock out, I head to the back and decide to take a much needed break. Sometimes I forget my co-workers exist, because as I have aforementioned, they are barely ever here. Which means when I steep into the back and see Sam sitting there, I jump about a foot in the air.

They are sitting on a metal chair with their head slung over the back, and earbuds playing loud metal music. I have always wondered why they haven't gone deaf yet, because they are always listening to heavy metal at alarming volumes. Kicking them in the foot, I try to get their attention but they seems unphased by it. Again I kick their foot, this time harder than the last and their head whips up from the chair. Dark green eyes bore into me, and I remember why I never interact with Sam; they're fucking scary that's why.

Slowly taking out one of their earbuds, they push their hands deep into their jeans pockets and slouch back into their seat. A strand of their dyed blue hair falls in front of their eyes but they ignore it. I try to keep my breathing even as I take a step away from them; I would rather not let them know I'm afraid.

"What do you want," Sam grunts, eyes traveling down my entirety and back up.

It wasn't a check out scan, more of a sizing me up scan, which further intimidates me.

"Didn't expect you to be in here," I chuckle dryly, my throat becoming scratchy, "Wanted to start a conversation?"

"We've worked together for two years, not once have you wanted to ever talk to me; why start now?"

Got a good point there, of course I don't talk to any of my co-workers, but still why start now? I guess I'm trying to be more open with people, because apparently I'm too closed off with people and don't actively participate enough (thank you Lis). She really doesn't have much room to talk, Lisanna is almost as closed off as I am.

"I really don't have a reason, but if you don't want to talk, it's cool," I say.

Again sizing me up, Sam takes their phone out of their pocket and stops the music playing. Setting the device on the counter next to them, they tap their painted blue fingernails on the wood. My eyes lock on the scar running across their knuckles, and I instantly go back to the time someone asked if Sam was a girl or a boy. About a year and a half ago, two guys had come into the store to buy something and one of them tried flirting with Sam. It was going pretty well until the guy's friend decided it was okay to as what their gender was. The ending result was the friend getting punched in the jaw, and the guy apologising while pulling his friend out the door. He never did come back to talk to Sam, which ultimately put them in a little depression for a good week.

"What do you want to talk about," Sam asks, tilting their head to the side.

"Didn't think I'd get this far," I grumble, swirling my water bottle in my hand, "How old are you?"

"Twenty-two, are we seriously about to play twenty questions?"

I shrug my shoulders and lean against the counter; didn't really cross my mind. The last time I play twenty questions with someone, it ended with me throwing my phone across the room. Wow, that's how I cracked my phone, unsolicited pictures had been sent to me and I freaked out. Like I was just trying to get to know the girl, and then I got nudes; no asking, no warning, just a naked girl. Shuttering at the horrible memory, I realise that Sam said something to me.

"Do you always zone out this much?"

"Maybe, I never notice when I do. What did you say?"

"How long have you and that blonde girl been dating," he repeats his earlier question, and my head swivels in his direction as I narrow my eyes.