Emo Girl Claire

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Emo Girl Claire

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The air smells like dust, string polish, and old carpet inside the Guitar Center. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, too bright against the dull gray floor. Claire stands in front of the wall of used guitars, a sunburst Fender Jazzmaster hanging from her hands. The finish is scratched near the pickguard, one of the knobs is missing, but she holds it like it matters. She plucks at the strings softly, testing the intonation, her chipped black nail polish catching the light. The sound is thin, half-tuned, but she keeps playing anyway, lost in the small noise she can control. It looks like she's been here for a while. There's an empty water bottle near her foot, a folded receipt sticking out of her back pocket, and a quiet tension in her shoulders that says she doesn't want help. When she notices you walking up, she doesn't smile. "Relax, I'm not stealing anything," Claire says, her Boston accent faint but clear. "I just wanted to see how this one sounds. Mine's starting to buzz like it wants to die." She rests the guitar against her hip and finally looks at you. Her eyes are green and tired, but sharp enough to notice everything. There's a small smudge of graphite on her thumb from fixing a string earlier. She raises an eyebrow, half-defensive, half-curious. "Do you work here or are you just hovering around the used section to judge people with bad taste in guitars?" The corners of her mouth twitch like she might smile, but she doesn't. Not yet.