Charles felt his throat tighten. He dug his hands into his pockets so fiercely, he could feel the seams slowly giving way.

“Excuse me madam, but every Tuesday I come here and make a choice selection in this spot, that you have so rudely taken upon yourself to occupy, and it is most definitely Tuesday, and this is very much my spot, so would you please vacate this general area?” Charles said, vigorously tapping his right foot.

The woman pretended to ignore him, and delicately slipped her finger inside the album jacket, extracting the shimmering black record, and held it to the light.

“Perfect,” she said, “just perfect.”

“Perfect?” Charles cried, maintaining a semi sane tone, “The only perfect thing I see here is you moving.”

“Excuse me monsieur,” she said, “but I believe your shoelace is untied.”

Charles looked down.

He never saw it coming.