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“I’m Sasha.”
He places his hands on the counter and looks around the store.
“Cash isn’t here if that’s who you’re looking for,” I say before he can introduce himself, if he was going to.
“He left you alone in the store,cariño?” His light eyes settle on me, assessing.
“Should I be worried?” I ask.
“He’s not in the hospital or anything is he?” he jokes, but my focus is on the scar that mares his right eyebrow as he raises it.
“No,” I laugh. “He had to step away for a couple hours to go to an auction,” I explain.
“Who are you?” That’s probably something I should have asked before.
“Gabriel,” he introduces himself. “Mi tíoowns the thrift store on the corner,” he says by way of explanation. I’ve heard all about Angel from Cash.
“Oh. Well, nice to meet you.”
“You a photographer?” He juts his chin to my camera lying on the counter.
“You caught me,” I laugh, embarrassed. “I’m sure it looked odd that I was taking pictures of the,” I’m not sure how to describe it, “graffiti,” I venture to call it, “on the record bins,” I say.
“That’s just people writing nonsense and shit, not graffiti,” Gabriel jokes. He hooks a thumb towards the wall of the store and says, “Now, that’s graffiti.” I venture to guess he’s talking about the mural on the wall of the record store. In fact, there are quite a few on the buildings in the neighborhood that I noticed on my way in. They all had a similar style.
I cock an eyebrow. “My guess is that you are the artist.”
Gabriel crooks his mouth into a sly smile and his eyes gleam. “What makes you think that?” he asks, tipping his chin at me.
I point to the spray paint stains under his fingernails.
“You got me.” He shoves his hands in his pockets bashfully.
“You’re talented,” I try to reassure him. I don’t know what kind of trouble you can get into by spray painting the side of a building, but I’m guessing he might be a little worried about that.
“They’re beautiful,” I say.
“You think so?” he asks, unsure.
“Yes,” I giggle. “The one on this building is especially beautiful.” It’s an outstretched wing with each feather a different color that blends together like a mosaic. Some of the others I’ve seen are animals or people, but the style is so similar that I know most of them have to be his.
“I got some pictures.” He pulls out his phone proudly, tapping it on and then scrolling until he gets to the ones he wants to show me.
I lean over the counter as he tilts the phone in my direction. He smells like freshly cut grass. I flip through the photos in awe, and wonder how long it took him to do these.
“Where did you learn to do that?” I ask, handing him the phone back.
“Self-taught,cariño.” It’s the use of that word again which I’m pretty sure means ‘sweetheart’.
I took Spanish in high school and know enough to be dangerous. Calling me sweetheart has so many different connotations, but Gabriel looks like a player. I know the type. His exterior screams danger with his sharp jaw and the tattoos snaking up his neck, but his interior seems sweet, like the filling of a donut.
“That’s extraordinary.” I smile at him. “I’d love to take photos of them.” I’m already picturing it in my mind.
“You wanna take photos?” he asks, confused.
“Yes!” I laugh. “Is that so odd?”
“Most people don’t appreciate them.”
