Business was slow at Howie’s Music. A couple of sixteen-year-old girls, out way too late, were popping bubblegum and looking at the top forty offers. Claire was already sick to death of Duran Duran’s new single A View to a Kill. Having heard enough, Claire dropped the needle on her current favorite track. The distinctive sound of a Yamaha synth cranked up the opening of Just Another Day. The girls left at the change of music.
Rob and Josh were over browsing the hard rock section. They were regular customers, and she knew them by their first names. Rob wandered over and commented that the store was slow.
“Richard Blade is doing some gig at Tower.”
Rob nodded sagely. Claire thought it was even money that Rob had no clue who Richard Blade was. KROQ was not on Rob’s radar, let alone a morning drive show. Josh sidled up, placing Mötley Crüe’s newest, Theater of Pain, on the counter. Without thinking, Claire rang him up when the door opened.
“Damn,” Josh said.
She was around 5’ 8”, thin, with really big hair, smoky makeup, a platinum new wave mane, with bright pink and purple streaks. She wore a cropped silver jacket with chrome studs, a leather micro skirt, and fishnet stockings. A pink mesh crop top didn’t conceal the black demi bra or the hard pink nipples.
Claire froze, her chest tightening until she remembered to breathe. The girl went to the listening station at the front of the central rows of albums. She flipped through the offers and donned the headphones. The guys stared openly. Claire walked over, detailing everything about her.
The woman’s gaze locked on Claire, taking her in,high heels, lace stockings, the mid-thigh pencil skirt, silk blouse, unbuttoned one button too far, her hair, a medium-length shag with blue highlights in her dark brown hair. She reached across, her hand brushing the silver jacket, her eyes not leaving the bright blue orbs of this girl who had stepped out of MTV. Unerringly, she hit a switch.
The ethereal, melodious soprano voice of Debbie Harry filled the store’s speakers. Claire turned, returning to the register and finishing Josh’s purchase without giving her another look. Josh started to approach her, but Claire’s cough was enough of a warning. She was into the song, not exactly dancing, but definitely moving.
Claire didn’t note the guys leaving, just an unconscious wave. Heart of Glass ended, the sound system picking up the Heard Somebody Cry track on Dead Man’s Party.
“It’s not Blondie,” Claire stated the obvious.
“Not as restrained. Vatos could learn from Burke.”
Claire’s eyes widened, her heart sped up. “Impressive, you know the band members. Most only know the singer.”
“Mara.”
“Claire. Don’t mention the dumbass Breakfast Club movie.”
“Favorite?” Mara asked.
“Talking Heads. Roxy Music. Boingo.” Claire was concise, certain.
Mara nodded. “Boingo Blondie MP.”
Claire instinctively translated MP as Missing Persons. The way she was dressed made it clear that Mara patterned herself after Dale Bozzio, with her own twists. Unconsciously, Claire had come out from behind the counter; they closed on one another, like panthers, circling each other. A glance at the clock, time to close. Claire walked to the door, reaching behind and twisting the lock. She turned off the lights. Poster track lights on the walls gave the store a soft glow. Tension thickened the air. With a click, the record player turned off, the system falling silent.
Mara leaned on the listening station, her eyes gleaming in the lights of the display. Claire edged closer; she could smell the Opium perfume Mara wore. Mara tilted her head, studying Claire in the darkness. They came together, perhaps an inch separating their bodies.
“I envy your freedom to be yourself, Mara.”
“People never get it. They see me as a freak show.”
A slight smile formed on Claire’s lips. “You use that to your advantage.” Her breath on Mara’s neck. “You use your looks to shock, to put people off balance. To be in control.”
Lips brushed Mara’s cheek. Mara heard Claire inhale deeply. Mara’s breath hitched at the contact, ever so slight. The fragile scent of Claire’s perfume, rose and lilies, filled Mara’s nose as she smelled Claire’s scent. Their lips touched, a slight brush, a deep exhale, then they met again, softly at first, then growing firm.
Claire felt the tentative probe of Mara’s tongue. Claire grabbed Mara’s hips, leading them across the room. Claire’s leg hit the edge of the couch against the wall. They stood, hands exploring. Mara unbuttoned Claire’s blouse, Claire’s hand under Mara’s mesh top, fingers rolling her exposed nipple. With a moan, Mara spun Claire, and they dropped onto the couch. Mara abandoned the blouse and tackled the tight black skirt.
Mara pulled; the skirt sliding down Claire’s long legs. She stood with her own skirt hiked around her waist. Claire drank Mara in with hooded eyes. Mara’s skin shone with nervous sweat. Claire’s gaze traveled up her smooth legs, lingering on the lightly trimmed pussy. Mara dropped to her knees, parting Claire’s legs. There was no more pretense; everything was deliberate, fingernails digging into soft flesh, her tongue hot, flat, wet as she kissed and licked her way up Claire’s thigh. Claire was squirming, aching for intimate contact.
“Close your eyes.” Mara backed off.
Eyes shut, Claire waited. Seconds turned into a minute, each tick of the clock like a day. Then she heard it: the subtle click of the door unlocking. By the time she sat up and looked, Mara was gone. Confusion raged through Claire’s mind, not only that it had happened, but with another woman. Claire was no stranger to sapphic love, but this was the first time she had misread the moment.
Never has she felt such an attraction. Had Mara planned it? She shivered, dressing. The moments replayed as Claire closed out the store. A hunger burned inside as she drove home. Claire felt a yearning to hold Mara, to kiss her, to… touch her. The feeling of Mara’s tongue on her thigh had been thrilling. Claire smiled sheepishly, realizing that she had felt—no, imagined—that more had been happening. Feeling dumb for wanting more, it was apparent that Mara had planned a thrill, that’s all.
She pulled into the driveway and reclined her seat. Mara was in her thoughts, and Claire could imagine what might have been.
As she fantasized about Mara licking her pussy, Claire’s hand slipped under her skirt, rubbing her clit through her panties. She slid a cassette into the tape deck, a Blondie mix. She pressed harder, her hips thrusting up on their own, her arousal filling the Cavalier, her moans getting louder.
Outside, an observer might have noticed the car rocking slightly and heard the muted music. If they had stepped to the driver’s side door, they would have seen Claire, legs parted, one hand rubbing her panties, the other massaging her tit, witness her body shake, her head roll back, eyes closed, the unmistakable face of an orgasmic release. As she came, Claire realized it wasn’t just lust. She had felt it, like someone had plugged an amplifier into her soul, and now it was playing the sweetest music. Why hadn’t Mara felt it too?
The next day, Claire was quiet and distant toward her co-worker, Marybeth, who had tried to get her friend to open up. Claire told her about Mara and the brief, intense feelings they shared.
“I know you are above such mortal feelings, Claire, but it sounds like love at first sight.” Marybeth purred. The store was busy, but not slammed. Marybeth pointed to a box of used albums that had come in.
“That stuff seems to be all the new wave stuff you like. Go through it, okay? Think about life.”
Marybeth put her arm on Claire’s and gave her a kiss on the cheek.
“As Richard Bach said, ‘If you love something, set it free. If it comes back, it’s yours. If not, it was never meant to be.’” She turned to the counter and started ringing up a customer.
Claire sorted the albums, lost in thought. She did not believe in love at first sight; hell, with the way everything was, she had a hard time believing love existed at all. If you love something, set it free. If it comes back, it’s yours. If not, it was never meant to be. The quote was heavy in her thoughts, Jonathan Livingston Seagull. She snorted. Like I have a destiny, she thought, not fucking likely. She heard the door subconsciously. She sensed, more than heard, the quiet din of a busy store dying slowly. Picking up the next album, she stared at the cover of Rhyme & Reason. Dale Bozzio, in all her new wave glamour, stared back. Claire stiffened, suddenly aware of the fragrance of Opium.
Slowly, she turned; Mara was there. She looked tired.
“Did you have fun last night?” Claire’s voice cut like a straight razor.
“I-I had to leave,” Mara said, her voice shaking. “You scared the fuck out of me.” She sighed. “Now I can’t get you out of my head.”
She FELT it, Claire thought.
“We connected.”
Mara nodded. “That’s what scared me. You mean more than just a fuck.”
Claire’s smile was melancholy.
“You turned something on inside me. I feel music I can’t describe. Leaving me felt like a spike through the heart.”
They stared at one another, unmoving. “Hurting you was never my intention. I didn’t want to have fun with you, then get blown off. I’m sorry, I didn’t have the strength to trust what I felt.”
There it was. The cocky Mara, accustomed to using her physicality to gain advantage, was exposed and vulnerable.
“You must despise me, but I had to know.”
It was Claire who was the predator now. She closed in on Mara, backing her against the counter. The low chatter in the store stopped, and Claire pressed in. She kissed Mara hard; in that single act, she claimed Mara as hers.
The kiss drew out. Claire felt a touch on her arm; Marybeth was holding her purse. Blindly, Claire grabbed it. The kiss ended, but not the full contact. Claire’s hooded eyes fell on Marybeth.
“I’ll clock you out and call Keith to come in. You clearly have things to work out.”
Claire nodded gratefully. Her arms holding Mara, they started kissing as they moved to the door, never letting go, never stopping the short, passionate kissing. As the door closed, they heard the store erupt in cheers, catcalls, and applause. Joy flowed through Claire as she thought of Blondie. Maybe the heart isn’t made of glass after all.
