In the Groove

I walked down the avenue to the neighborhood record store, drawn by the gentle rumble of bass drifting through the doorway. Near the front counter, a wooden browser crate held a row of classic 7-inch singles, but one cardboard sleeve was wedged backward, jarring against the clean alphabetical divider. I stepped onto the smooth timber ledge of the bin, paused to catch the ambient rhythm from the overhead speakers, and slid my fingers along the matte paper jacket. With two deliberate, syncopated pulses of my hands, I lifted the disc, pivoted it squarely forward, and dropped it flush with the row. It clicked cleanly home in tempo.