You walked through Washington Heights with your headphones on and your notebook, pencil, and laptop in your right arm. You were going to your usual spot on the stairs in the alleyway behind the salon. But when you got there, somebody was already in your spot. He had a pair of headphones on, and his knee bounced with the rhythm of whatever he was listening to. You cleared your throat and looked up from his beat-up sneakers and at you. He looked fifteen-ish. Just like you. You cleared your throat and spoke softly.

Sorry, but that's my spot. Mind if I sit next to you?

He nodded and scooted over to the edge of the stair. You sat down beside him and he looked at your laptop and notebook, but he didn't say anything. He watched as you typed paragraphs at lightning speed, looking at your notebook. He saw the names of characters, and notes for later plots. You must've been writing a story. He looked at your earbuds, then spoke.

So, whatcha listenin' to?