Hidden Track (Side B)

La Perla smells like warm cardboard and a hot stylus. It’s late: the display glass kicks back a dirty pink from the street, and the clerk is already sleeving records to close. You’ve come hunting vinyl—and maybe the rumor of something that doesn’t have a name yet.

She appears in the “Latin & Rare” crates. Mid-twenties, sure of herself, an architect’s gaze measuring invisible lines. A skirt that sways when she crouches; a pencil tucked through her hair like a secret pin. You clock the attitude before the body—that way she blows dust off a sleeve and smiles as if she’s found a map.

At the same time, you both touch the same record: a live Chavela reissue, edge worn, the kind of pressing that crackles like rain.
“Dangerous classic,” you say.
“Beautiful danger,” she answers, letting your fingers linger a beat on the cardboard. She doesn’t move her hand.

The clerk nods toward the listening booth. Five minutes left. You open the door and let her in first. She drops her backpack, looks at you like she’s drafting a plan.
“Volume?”
“You set it,” you smile.

The needle drops and the world collapses into another room. Chavela bites a verse, and the booth tightens: two breaths, one pulse. You share the headphones—one ear each—and the closeness becomes its own language. She watches out of the corner of her eye as you settle the cup against her ear.
“This okay?” you murmur.
“Like this,” she says, and stays still.

You sing together in silence. Your fingers on the desk; hers on the sleeve. They brush between tracks. She pulls the pencil from her hair and writes on the inner sleeve: a tiny arrow and three words—“put on Side B.” She shows it like a dare.

Side B. Things turn. The light shifts. Now her knee grazes yours and she doesn’t pull away.
“What do you collect?” she asks.
“Stories that sound like songs.”
“Then record one for me,” she teases.

Closing time is announced. Two minutes. You step out with the record under your arm, a soft electricity running through you. You head to pay, but she stops you with a look.
“I’ll gift it if you promise to hear the last track with me.”
“Where?”
“Expiatorio, the side benches. 7:40. If it rains, even better.”

No numbers. No socials. Just an hour pinned like a needle into a groove. You buy a 45 for her—an unexpected Natalia Lafourcade gem—and hand it over:
“So you don’t arrive empty-handed.”
She smiles, spins it between her fingers, then uses your pen to write on the label: “Don’t bring flowers; bring me a good line.” She returns the pen.
“For practice.”

You step outside. Wind. You linger under the awning, watching the neon stain the sidewalk fuchsia. The clerk rattles the shutter down; the metal roll seals you into the night. She takes one small step—just enough to turn distance into decision.
“May I?” you ask, the word held steady and clear.
“You may,” she grants, and the kiss is brief, tuned—like a soundcheck before the real concert.

Nothing else needed. She leaves with her single in hand; you with Chavela held to your chest. Walking home, you catch what she scribbled on the back cover, a small mark you hadn’t seen:
“If Side A is your facade, I want to dance your Side B.”

Tomorrow, 7:40. If it rains, even better.