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Post by METRODORA CROSS on Nov 4, 2011 23:48:54 GMT -5
Metrodora Cross was on a mission.
And not just ANY mission. She was on a mission that involved her favorite thing in the whole world. Music. Yes, Metro was scanning the shelves of this antique record shop, looking for some OLD music to play on the record machine she had found in storage.
Of course, she had also found a box full of a hell of a lot of records, but when she looked through them, she notied an atrocity that was too horrendous to ever be mentioned to anyone.
She looked through ALL the records. The whole effing box. And guess what wasn't there? Guess what GREAT EFFING SINGER was NOT properly represented in that box?
FRANK SINATRA.
Seriously? There were absolutely none of his records in the box at ALL. Sinatra was legit one of her favorite oldies singers of EVER. So instead of throwing a fit like she would have normally, she took the Bentley to the mall, which contained the closest record store.
Now, most people would probably not believe that she liked that kind of music, considering that most of what she sang was pretty modern (as in, 90's or later) punk rock or covers of pop songs. But no, Metro had always been taught since forever to appreciate all kinds of music. So yeah, on her iPod (well, the few of them), she had everything from classical to country to rap to screamo. You would never hear "I don't like that song, turn it off" coming from her.
And as it was her insane aspiration to know everybody, she really wanted to know the lyrics to every song. Which was insane and improbable, but hey.
She had her red Nano with her in her pocket, attached to red headphones that she currently had around her neck as she waved to the old record store manager who knew her dad and used to babysit Metro from time to time. "Got any Sinatra?" she asked, pointing up to indicate the music playing over the speakers. He smiled and nodded, then went to the back. Pretty soon the title song from the musical Anything Goes came on, and she kind of danced as she made her way to the S section.
Then she started to sing along, a bit louder than any normal person that would sing along to a song in a store.
"In olden days, a glimpse of stocking
Was looked on as something shocking.
But now, God knows,
Anything go-"
Metro was interrupted when she accidently ran into someone. "OH MY GOSH. I'm so sorry!" she said before really looking to see who the person was.
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Post by WESTON BRODERICK on Nov 5, 2011 10:33:45 GMT -5
It wasn’t often that Wes made his way through a record store with a disappointed look on his face. Whether that fact went in direct correlation with the fact that he also never went to said stores with a specific mission, he had no idea, and quite honestly preferred not to think about it at all, as it would undoubtedly make him a tad peeved that he wanted this particular record so badly. Not that he could help it. He was on a Sinatra kick—had been for the past, oh, five or so years—and although he had every one of the musical genius’s songs on his ipod, there was something different about holding a record in his hand. It was an inexplicable feeling, really, but he liked it. Which was probably why he owned about one hundred in total, most of them waiting at home in Venice Beach, and felt it was never too late to add one more to the very well-used collection.
Ordinarily, his first choice wouldn’t have been the mall’s record store; he liked things quiet, personal, and intimate, not loud and bustling and utterly chaotic, as malls everywhere seemed to be. Tucked away and never in the same place twice. That was how he liked his music. Perhaps he was a bit of a curmudgeon, deep inside. An “old soul,” as both his mother and Angel so loved to tell him. Then again, maybe he just really despised new music and the way it was sold. It didn’t really matter. He was here now, and hoped to leave as soon as humanly possible.
It was, he supposed a bit better than he’d expected. At the very least, it wasn’t crowded. There were a lot of records, but none of the ones he was really looking for. Sinatra was hard to find; people hid him in their houses, framed and clean and shiny and hideous because they were never used. What was the point? Music was meant to be listened to, not looked at. And there was something exponentially different about the crystal-clear, re-mastered quality of Sintra, Buddy Holiday, and Frankie Valli via iPod headphones and the crackling, popping, shaky jerking of the same songs played via phonograph. Wes much preferred the later.
He wasn’t paying much attention, not to anything but the meticulous combing through the “S” section, so it wasn’t surprising that he didn’t notice the girl until she was literally knocking him backwards. Stumbling a few paces, Wes gathered himself quickly enough, shooting the stranger a small smile and a nod as he looked up at her, forgiveness unspoken but still lingering. Wait…maybe not such a stranger. The second he actually looked at her, Wes recognized the girl: Metradora Cross. Or, as he was almost positive she preferred to be called, Metro. They had history together. Not that she’d know that—people usually didn’t, as he almost always sat in the back corner and either slept, attempted to sleep, wasn’t there, or just plain didn’t speak. Still, it’d be rude if he didn’t say anything seeing as he at least knew who she was, if not personally.
Before he really thought about forming the words “It’s fine,” however, another thought popped into his head, one that hadn’t fully registered in the few moments she’d been approaching him. “Were you singing? Just now,” his sentences were curt, although not quite unfriendly. Wes just didn’t talk to strangers.
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Post by METRODORA CROSS on Nov 8, 2011 16:24:46 GMT -5
"I was just looking for some Sinatra and I should have been paying attention and-"
It was then Metro realized two things.
One, she was rambling, which was to be expected from Metro. She tended to be a talker, plus there was the added thoughts of how she HATED running into people, because it showed uncoordination. And Metro was perfectly coordinated.
Two, OMG SHE KNEW THIS PERSON! He was in one of her classes, though it didn't really matter which one, right? And he usually just sat in the back because Metro saw him when she walked into class every day and he was really quiet and she always saw him outside of class hanging around with that one girl and the messy-haired blonde and some guy with really curly hair and...
WHAT WAS HIS NAME?
It was something with a W. Metro unintentionally put her finger right under her lips, thinking. Wayne? No. Wally? Nope. Wewjfsdifhjks? Uh, no, that wasn't even really a word...
WESTON! It was Weston. He probably went by Wes, though, but she didn't know because he like NEVER talked. The only reason she legit remembered was because his name was right before hers on the attendance list. Last name Broderick or something.
SUCCESS. Metro loved it when she recognized people.
"Were you singing? Just now."
Metro smiled, holding in her excitement just to answer his question, at least. "Yeah, I love singing. I'm in a band and..." Okay, yeah, she couldn't hold it in that long. "Your name's Wes, right?" She didn't realize she used his possible nickname until it was too late. Oh well. "I think you're in my class." Yeah, no, she still didn't remember which class. "I'm Metro Cross. I don't know if you recognize me or not. I don't want to sound like like some creepy stalker person, I just like it when I recognize people." It was then that she gave him a quick hug, not even noticing whether or not it was awkward.
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Post by WESTON BRODERICK on Nov 27, 2011 18:12:49 GMT -5
Jesus, she talked fast.
Wes simply stared at Metro as she spoke, silently wondering exactly what she felt she had to explain; it was obvious enough she hadn't run into him on purpose. The girl was a bit clumsy, sure, but she wasn't an idiot. And neither was he. Accidents happened. He was just about to open his mouth to tell her that, too, when she pounced. Literally.
Wes couldn't help but wonder, perhaps a bit bitterly, if she'd ever been taught a single thing about personal space, of even first impressions. He wasn't a hugger. He didn't look the part of a hugger, and he certainly didn't act like one either, so Metro was either oblivious, stupid (which he'd already established wasn't the case), or simply discourteous. Personally, he was banking on it being the first one. She didn't seem like the rude type.
Too surprised even to wince beneath her grip, Wes merely blinked, giving her an odd sort of stare as she released him, still stiff as a board from when her arms had first found their way around him. What the hell? Still, at least she'd answered his question. At least this wasn't a hug-and-run sort of deal or anything like that.
He smiled, giving her a small nod as she confirmed his suspicion. "Yeah. History, I think," he chuckled a bit, amused by just how genuinely excited she was to find someone she knew here. Or, well, anywhere, as apparently was her way of thinking. "Don't worry--nothing wrong with saying hi. No broken bones or anything, so I think we're all good," he offered her a small, almost halfhearted smile that, although perhaps unconventional in its display, was very friendly nevertheless.
He paused for a moment before looking her over, not in a creepy, checking-out kind of way so much as analytically, before his brows furrowed and he spoke in an entirely non-judgmental manner, "You don't look like the Sinatra type."
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Post by METRODORA CROSS on Dec 22, 2011 14:44:02 GMT -5
Metro was a little oblivious when other things got in the way. Other things, in this case, being her impulsiveness when it came to hugs. But when she released him, she realized some things again. He was kind of stiff, like since before she hugged him until now. And he was kind of staring at her. Oh, he ws one of those non-hugging types. Oops. Her expression was apologetic as she searched for something to say to verbalize the apology. Though she would never find the words, because she never apologized for hugs out loud. Ever. Everrrr. It was the one thing she would not officially take back.
"Yeah. History, I think." SHE KNEW IT. "Don't worry--nothing wrong with saying hi. No broken bones or anything, so I think we're all good."
Metro smiled as he chuckled, pushing the whole hug dilemma to the back of her mind. Which was easy to so, since her attention span was not exactly the greatest. She loved it when guys chuckled it was just so.... so.... chuckle-y. It was so deep, since anything higher would be a laugh or giggle, and just. It was indescribable. If the only sounds she heard all day were chuckling and music, she would be happy. Not that she didn't like conversation or talking, of course. No one would even believe her if she said she didn't like to talk.
And she didn't even like to talk really; it just happened. Like when she randomly sang. Well, that wasn't the best thing to compare it to, since she liked singing, but whatever.
"You don't look like the Sinatra type."
"Neither do you." Her nose crinkled a bit. It was a pet peeve of hers when people labeled musical preference based on appearances. Metro wasn't angry, though. A lot of people did that. Still, it wasn't very nice of her to get annoyed, because that made sense, so she shook the feeling away (not literally, that would be weird) and shrugged. "But yeah, I like Sinatra. And pretty much every other type of music." Not even 'pretty much', she like all kinds of music. Of course, she liked some more than others, but it was easier to say she liked all of them and let people assume what they would.
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Post by WESTON BRODERICK on Jan 22, 2012 1:34:43 GMT -5
Oh, it seemed he’d struck a nerve. The tiniest hint of an amused smirk spread over Wes’s face at her reaction, although he couldn’t help but nod in agreement. He shrugged. Then again, who really did look like the Sinatra type? Senior citizens? Yes, he supposed, among others. But still. There was definitely a stereotype for those among their age who listened to the older stuff, and although Wes wasn’t one to typically pay attention to such things (or be phased by much at all, to be honest), he couldn’t help but feel a twinge of surprise at this girl. She was, for lack of a better, more specific word, unique. He could tell already just by their ten second conversation, and Wes prided himself on his judge of character.
“Huh,” was all he replied to her statement about her musical taste. She could say what she liked, but everyone hated something. Not that planned on challenging her. Wes raised his brows, tongue poking its way into his cheek as he turned back to the records, fingers flicking through them with the sort of expertise that came only from those who’d practically grown up in such shops. There was silence, save for the music playing through the speakers and the sound of cases flipping against one another. He moved down an aisle, closer to Metro. The movement wasn’t one made out of rudeness or even advancement (Wes was so very taken and therefore oblivious to flirting to all others but a certain Miss Dihanie, it almost hurt), so much as necessity. He was a man on a mission, after all.
“Sometimes, I think it’s better when you look for things in the wrong order,” he remarked, although whether to himself or Metro was a bit uncertain, “that way, you end up constantly surprised.”
Tongue once more poking into his cheek, Wes’s eyes seemed to glint as he shifted over to the “T” section, still moving with dexterity worthy of those born in the age of the phonograph. Sinatra had to be hiding here somewhere…now, of course, it was just time for the Easter egg hunt. That was sometimes the best part, though. The searching.
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