A small cloud of moths danced around a streetlight outside the shop, appearing as white specks and vanishing into shadows as they fluttered. Mixtape liked watching the moths and the shadows of ponies trotting past the windows of his store. They kept him from looking elsewhere, like at the empty shelves and the "Everything Must Go!" signs taped to the boxes scattered across the floor.
"Damn," a mare's voice from behind him said, "the store's lookin' bleak."
The mare, Threadbare, was chewing gum so loudly that Mixtape felt his ears swivel to catch the noise. He turned toward her after watching a silhouetted couple walk past on the other side of the street. He looked beyond the cyan unicorn at the empty, gray shelving units covered in dust. The dirt throughout the store was illuminated in unearthly clarity under the florescent light, especially in the grout of the white tiled floor.
At least in the day, he could pretend the shadows of his store didn't exist.
"Yeah," he said, finally looking to Threadbare. Her eyebrows, pierced with sparkling gems, were drawn down, and her dark eyes were staring him down with such an intensity that the words he had prepared to say stuck in his throat.
"So, you gonna retire?" she asked between chewing. Mixtape felt his heart drop and an artificial chill settle in his chest. He nodded but didn't meet Threadbare's eyes.
"Life is going to be tough without this place, though," he said.
"You're broke," she said. The words, harsh and staccato, hung in the air. She had stopped chewing. Mixtape shifted his weight.
"I—" He looked down; the silence was heavy for a moment. "Yes."
"I told you years ago, Mixxy."
She had. Threadbare had been a regular since the beginning, back when eight-tracks had just gone out of style and cassette tapes were the next best thing. Back then, they had probably been too friendly, attending parties together and getting themselves into trouble, but that was just how Mixtape interacted with his customers-- at least back then. Relationships were much more casual twenty years in the past; that's why when CDs first hit the market, she was comfortable enough to tell him that he had to make a change, that his business would come to ruin.
If only he had listened... and listened again when she said that the store was done two years later. He would have bits; not many, but enough to live modestly in some nowhere town. As it stood, his small retirement had dwindled into one month's worth of funds for housing and food.
His eyes burned as he nodded his solemn recognition. Threadbare sighed and reached a hoof across the dingy counter, brushing his shirt. He looked to her, aware of his downturned lips.
"What do you have left that I will like?" she asked.
Things she would like—music, in particular. His job; the livelihood he had built around himself. There was still some work— not much –for a few more days. Inventory needed cleared out and throwing it away would be not only wasteful, but add to the heartbreak of closing.
While he knew Threadbare didn't actually want or need anything from the store, she had offered him the opportunity to pretend, one last time. He straightened his posture and took a deep breath, closing his eyes as he did so. Tears that had gathered in the corners of his eyes before were loosened and fell down his cheeks when he reopened them.
"What have you been interested in lately?" he asked, feeling some of the cold void that had settled inside his chest leave his body as he slipped into a role he had rarely been able to play in recent moons.
Threadbare smiled, her ears swiveling forward as she brought a hoof under her chin in mock thought. Her lips screwed to the side, then she said, "Y'know, I recently heard a song from one of my dad's old records by Flank Zippa? I don't remember what it was called, but, you know, it went like this—" She proceeded to hum a vague melody that was common of music from Flank Zippa's era, something simultaneously complex and generic.
Mixtape nodded along, then said, "Ah yes, the one about swans. I know just the thing." He turned toward the bead curtain that led to his office, took a step, then said, "I'll be right back. You hang out right there."
Threadbare gave the affirmative as Mixtape stepped away, past the strings of yellowed plastic disks that shielded his office view. As soon as the beads parted around him and he took in the mess of boxes—mostly filled with overstuffed manila folders—piled on every available surface of his office, a deep sadness began to crush him. The sensation became all-consuming as he failed to find a place to look in the room that did not hold memories. Every box, every folder, every decoration—all had an emotion imprinted on his mind that only caused the deep despair to crush him further.
It was over.
The days of sneaking into his office with customers in the night hours to hit his bong, the one he sold weeks ago as an "antique vase," were over. The ponies he had held close through his store were gone, either through death, disinterest or relocation. The storefront that had been home to Mix's Tapes would never again be frequented by creatures in brightly colored clothes with too-loud boomboxes on their withers. Never again would he have to settle a dispute between music tastes or fix a broken tape deck.
There was a purity, an innocence, to the times before, when his shelves had been full, not dusty. It felt innocent like the foals that had played chase through the aisles in the best of days. The same kind of laughter could, perhaps, grace whatever business took over the space after he vacated, but it would not be the same. Something about modern times was corrupted and cruel.
The pressure of sadness was suffocating, and he found himself anchored in place in an office that suddenly felt alien. Nothing was as it once was; there was a deep veil of loss that had settled into the shadows of the room.
"You see a ghost?" Threadbare asked. Her voice, close, felt so distant.
"No," he said. He was only partially aware of the hollowness in his tone, but Threadbare's comment had reminded him of what he was supposed to be doing: work.
On top of a filing cabinet by the door, there was an oblong box of cassette and vinyl albums containing some of his favorite music, Flank Zippa included. The spot had always been home to a collection of his favorite inventory. He grasped the box in his yellow magic and walked back out to the counter, setting it near Threadbare.
"Ghost gotcha good," she said. "You're looking a bit warped!"
The attempt at continuing their little roleplay did little to lift Mixtape's spirits, but he put on a fake smile as he pulled several items from the box. None were particularly valuable, but the sentimental value behind the plastic cases and record sleeves had largely been why they became favorites. He laid them all out to face Threadbare, colorful artwork on display and memories running in the back of Mixtape's mind as his thoughts reminded him of why he had kept each item in the box.
Until closing, Mixtape pretended to pretend. He talked about each album at length, allowing himself to indulge in the bittersweet memories surrounding each one. For a moment, he was transported back to warm concerts in fields outside of major cities, the humid nights' air and creatures abound, their touch, the scent—it had all been so perfect. He would get lost in those thoughts until Threadbare gently brought him back, asking to compare the music to her fake Zippa melody. Reminded so suddenly of the world, Mixtape would step back into his old persona, comparing the music and explaining why he thought each album was a good fit. Threadbare would ask questions at appropriate intervals and chew her gum loudly as he answered—the only sign of her disinterest.
Mixtape wanted to tell her that it wasn't working, that he was feeling more and more exhausted each time she brought him back to earth. All he really wanted was to close the store early, to think about the times before, but Threadbare had three foals and the time she spent with Mixtape—thirty minutes on Sunday evenings—was the only time she had away from home and work. Even though he knew her well, their friendship had dissolved into warm acquaintance over the years as she had settled into her life.
She decided to buy two cassettes and two records—the only music Mixtape had had time to talk about before she had to leave.
"Keep the change," Threadbare said, pushing a small cloth bag of bits across the counter. She pulled the bag of albums into her white magic aura as she stepped away from the counter to leave, then paused and looked over her shoulder. Their eyes met for a long moment.
"Goodnight, Mixxy."
She had stopped chewing gum.
He felt the sadness squeezing his lungs as it bore down on his chest, harder than before. For a moment—a long one—his goodbye caught in his throat.
"Goodnight, Threadbare," he finally said. His voice cracked.
Her smile was tight-lipped. Normally, their goodbye had a timeframe, almost always "next Sunday." Their interaction had been routine.
"Take care of yourself," she said, then turned away and trotted out the door. The bells mounted on the doorframe jingled as it closed, then the incessant buzz of the overhead lights-- unheard while he was focused on Threadbare --took over the silence.