Page 72 of Bi-Partisan

“That probably sounds a little weird, but I don’t know. I guess I just think old stuff is cooler than new stuff.” He shrugs.

“I don’t think it sounds weird at all,” I say, taking his hand.

“Really?” He laces our fingers together and swings our hands between us a little as we walk.

“No, I kind of get it, actually. I never really thought about it until now, but I think I enjoy buying used books or records for a similar reason.” I hesitate for a moment, wondering how much I should give away, but press on. He’s giving a peek into a side of his life close to his heart by bringing me to his home. I can at least attempt to do the same.

“I like reading the notes people left behind in the margins and seeing how well-worn the vinyl sleeve is. It makes me feel connected to whoever had it before me, even though I don’t know the person. I didn’t have a lot of that growing up.”

He squeezes my hand then lifts it to his mouth to press a kiss to my knuckle—a silent acknowledgement without asking for me to say anymore, which I appreciate. “So, then what sort of weird, unnecessary thing for your apartment should we be on the lookout for?”

“I don’t remember actually agreeing to this quest,” I say.

“You didn’t disagree, either, though,” he counters.

“True, but that’s because you jumped my bones before I had the chance.”

“I had my gorgeous veterinarian boyfriend in my hometown apartment. Can you blame me?” He flashes me a grin. “Besides, you didn’t seem to mind.”

“That I did not,” I admit.

“So, weird flea market find?” he asks again as we pass a table full of antique arrowheads and cannonball fragments. “Come on, it’s just like a used book—a connection, just one that doesn’t serve a purpose.”

“What’s wrong with something serving a purpose? Without a purpose, it’s just something that sits on a shelf and wastes space,” I argue.

“Takes up space, not wastes it,” he says pointedly. “Things are allowed to take up space. You’re allowed to take up space.”

Well, fuck. I didn’t wake up this morning expecting my boyfriend to drop deep character assessments on me, but here we are. I feel a sudden lump in my throat that I quickly swallow past. Then I stop and pull him out of the way of the main foot traffic pattern. I move so I’m facing him and stare at him for a moment.

“Everything alright? Was that too much for me to say?” he asks tentatively.

I shake my head. “No, it wasn’t too much. Although, everything is not alright because I really want to kiss you in a way that is probably not suitable for the public. Or for the South.”

He laughs, a little breathlessly. “No, probably not.”

I smile softly and nod. “Thank you, though.”

“You’re welcome.”

Taking a deep breath, I turn and scan the parking lot full of tables and tents.

“Would you like to start with looking at vinyls?” he asks. “There are a few booths that are usually here and have—well, I was going to say good collections, but I don’t actually know that since I know nothing about vinyl. But they have a lot.”

“Yeah, that sounds good,” I say and let him lead me toward a tent with at least six tables of boxes full of vinyls.

Although I could probably spend hours sorting through records, just like I do at almost any bookstore, I try to be quick. We spend about forty minutes looking through boxes at a few different booths, and I manage to find three albums I remember listening to a lot as a kid but don’t have yet.

“Now what?” he asks as I tuck my last purchase in the reusable bag he’d tucked into his pocket ‘just in case.’

“I don’t know. This was your idea, not mine,” I say.

He rolls his eyes and takes my hand again. “Fine, we’re just going to walk around until something catches your eye then.”

We weave our way through a few rows, and while a lot catches my eye, it’s mostly because there are some truly bizarre things on these tables. Creepy dolls, unidentifiable paintings, and weird lamps. But then we turn to go down the next row, and I spot a small metal object on the corner of a table filled with mostly dishes and serving ware.

Almost immediately, Jamie picks up on it. “Find something?”

“Maybe,” I admit, taking a step closer.

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