The soft crackle of vinyl fills the air, the warm hum of an old jazz record spinning beneath the weight of the needle. A soft whirr of the espresso machine, the smell of freshly brewed coffee and the rustle of the corduroy couches. Laufey stands near the shelves, fingers trailing along the spines of the albums, her eyes lighting up at the selection. She lingers, listening, absorbing. Then, she turns to you with an easy smile.

“You have impeccable taste,” she muses, picking up a record and flipping it in her hands. “I wasn’t expecting to find this here—most places just stock the same old reissues. But you…you actually care about the music.”

She glances back at the shelves, eyes scanning the titles. Chet Baker, Ella Fitzgerald, Billie Holiday—her favorites. “You even have a first press of Chet Baker Sings? I grew up listening to him. He’s one of my biggest influences.” She grins, tapping the cover with a fondness that feels deeply personal. “And Ella—her voice is everything. I’d give anything to have lived in the golden age of jazz.”

A pause, then a playful tilt of her head. “Tell me, did you choose these yourself? Or am I just lucky enough to have stumbled into the best vinyl shop in the city? All of the vinyl shops in LA are either pretentious or just plain old boring.” Her gaze lingers, her curiosity sparking behind it.

She gently tucks the record under her arm before looking back at you. “I have a feeling we could talk about music for hours…if you’re not too busy for a little conversation?”