**this is a bit of a short story i am working on i promise i am a writer and i write things i promise pinky promise no backsies i will post the full thing when it's done**
If the sky is what is above us, then the sky in every chain music shop is a mess of silver glowing pipes and ducts ribbed with thick white veins. Matt H. and Kev, and Matt. S and Paul; I knew them in the way people in the same chain know each other. Social interactions like peripheral vision; you saw them in regional memos in team photos, or you saw them at biannual northeast parties at the sour damp carpeted venues hired out. We all shared the same sky. Every day spent under the dull reflections the pipes cast. The weather never changed for any of us. Outside it could have been snowing or glowing hot but in the shops, everything stayed the same.
The only exception to the unchanging forecast for them was October the 22nd 2002. The day Rod Stewart’s collection of big band covers of classic American songs was released. Rod glowed out of the plastic cases of a thousand CDs in his white dress shirt, toothy and wrinkled like leather. The pipes caught glints off the cases and shone them back down, and it seemed almost like a sunny day. Outside, not that anyone could have known, it was raining; huge grey tears poured onto the slick concrete. Inside they were safe in their world of black rubber floors with thick raised pads like Braille and fluorescent lights and Rod Stewart’s dead eyes winking from every plastic display cut-out. Tills sang a monotonous symphony of beeps and clicks. It had been a hard day for most of us: I was coming down with a flu that made the world feel filmy and slimy like a rotten pond. Karen had been through a particularly bad break-up with Matt S. and had refused to work on the till next to him, and let big black tears run down her face silently all morning.
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