The Record Store Romance

Vinyl Vibes has been on Nostrand Ave since 1978.

My father opened it. I inherited it. And I'll probably die in it, surrounded by fifty thousand records and the smell of dust.

I'm Denise. Fifty-five. Last woman standing in a gentrifying neighborhood.

"We're looking for a Coltrane pressing," the man says. "Blue Train. Original mono."

"We have three," I say without looking up. "Which do you want?"

That gets his attention.

He's maybe fifty, distinguished looking, wearing the kind of blazer that says money but not too much money.

"Three? How is that possible?"

"Because I've been doing this since before you knew what mono meant." I finally look up. "You want to see them or not?"

His name is Marcus.

Record collector, retired music professor, recently divorced. He buys the most expensive Coltrane pressing without haggling.

"Come back Saturday," I tell him. "We're getting an estate collection. Might have more of what you're looking for."

"Is that an invitation?"

"It's good customer service."

He smiles like he knows the difference.

Saturday, he's waiting when I open.

Helps me unload boxes, sorts through the collection with hands that know what they're touching.

"You've got an Abbey Lincoln first pressing here," he says reverently.

"I know."

"Most people wouldn't."

"I'm not most people."

The estate collection takes all day.

Marcus stays for everything—cataloging, pricing, arguing about condition grades. By closing time, my feet hurt and my back aches and I'm happier than I've been in months.

"Dinner?" he asks.

"I'm exhausted."

"Takeout. Your place. I'll carry the food."

I should say no. I barely know this man.

"Ethiopian okay?"

We eat on my floor, surrounded by records.

He tells me about his career, his failed marriage, the collection that became his identity.

"Why records?" I ask.

"Because they're honest. Every scratch, every pop—it's history you can hear."

"That's what I always say."

"I know." He sets down his injera. "I read your interview in Wax Poetics fifteen years ago. That quote stuck with me."

"You've known about my store for fifteen years?"

"Known about it. Never had the courage to visit."

"Why not?"

"Because I knew if I walked in here, I'd never want to leave." He moves closer. "I was right."

He kisses me between stacks of vinyl.

Curtis Mayfield on one side, Minnie Riperton on the other. His hands find my waist, pull me against him.

"This is crazy," I whisper.

"This is jazz." He smiles against my mouth. "Improvised, unexpected, and exactly right."

We make love in my apartment above the store.

The rumble of the subway below. The smell of old vinyl everywhere. His hands tracing curves that haven't been traced in years.

"Beautiful," he breathes.

"I'm not—"

"You're a first pressing." He kisses my belly. "Rare. Valuable. Perfect imperfections."

His mouth finds me and I grip the sheets.

He plays me like a record—starting slow, finding the groove, building toward something inevitable.

"Marcus—"

"Let it play out. We've got all night."

When he enters me, I feel the needle drop.

That moment of anticipation before the music starts. Then we're moving, finding rhythm, creating something that's ours alone.

"So good," he groans. "Denise—"

"Don't skip." I pull him deeper. "Stay in the groove."

Afterward, in my cramped bedroom, he holds me close.

"I want to invest," he says.

"In what?"

"The store. Your vision. Everything." He props himself up. "Let me help you keep this place alive."

"I don't need charity—"

"It's not charity. It's belief." He touches my face. "And if I get to be near you while I do it? Even better."

Marcus becomes a fixture at Vinyl Vibes.

Works the register on weekends. Sources rare pressings. Brings customers from his professor network.

"People will talk," I warn him.

"Let them." He pulls me close in the jazz section. "They'll say the record store lady found her perfect match."

"That's corny."

"That's true."

We get married in the store.

Between the Motown section and the funk. Curtis Mayfield providing the ceremony music.

"You're sure about this?" I ask.

"I've been sure since I walked through that door." He takes my hands. "Ready to press our own record?"

"That metaphor is stretched too thin."

"You love it."

I do.

I love all of it.

Vinyl Vibes is still the last Black-owned record store in Brooklyn.

But now there are two of us behind the counter.

Two collectors.

Two music lovers.

Two people who found each other in the stacks.

Some records skip.

Some records are perfect.

Ours plays forever.

A side and B side.

Together.