The flannel-clad twenty-something, perched on Turntable Tavern’s front counter, didn’t look up. “You talking to me?”
“Jim—we’re the only ones here.”
“It’s Jimothy, and the Bats and Kooks have the same post-aughts suburban-punk aesthetic, fam.”
“We’re not family! Stick to filing by artist.”
“Alphabet’s a social construct. Music’s just vibes.”
Martin, on the brink of tossing out Jimothy and his lavender-latte, froze as a fedora-clad customer entered.
“Do you have a hypnagogic pop section?”
Jimothy smirked at his boss. “I got you, fam!”
Christy Hartman pens short fiction from her home between the ocean and mountains of Vancouver Island Canada. She writes about the chasm between love and loss and picking out the morsels of magic in life’s quiet moments. Christy has been shortlisted for Bath and Bridport Flash Fiction prizes and is a New York City Midnight winner. She has been published by Elegant Literature, Sci-Fi Shorts, Fairfield Scribes, and others. www.christyhartmanwriter.wordpress.com
This is deliciously smirky!
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