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My record store is a modest little establishment in the Sunnydale business district. You think its location in the business district would actually garner business. It’s all wishful thinking.

The unfortunate name of my record store is “Ye Olde Music Shoppe”. Believe when I tell I had nothing to do with it. I preferred “Sunnydale Record & Tape Exchange” myself. It was nondescript. Straight to the point.

Unfortunately, my father preferred something else, and I don’t doubt it was just to show me up. But since he's the primary financial backing for the store, I suppose he had the right to be choosy. When Clem offered the store to me, I was drunk and said yes, then swiftly signed the papers before I could sober up and freak out. I didn’t know what the fuck I was doing. Luckily, my pops Rupert swept in and saved the day with just enough time left to clean his glasses again. After giving me a two-days long lecture about the necessity of foresightedness, Dad provided the money to help make the shop mine.

Which meant he had all the right in the world to fucking humiliate me.

“It appeals to the old-world sentiment, don’t you see,” he asked, trying to repress a smirk as painters emblazoned the name on the awning and window. “You could put some victrolas around, play your guttertrash records on those.”

This is why we don’t have a good father-son relationship.

Anyway, despite it’s archaic name (which I was too lazy and poor to change), my store carries a lot of good, modern stuff. Most of the lot is used vinyl, LPs and 45s that would make any seriously hip wanker’s mouth water. Just don’t ask for something like, oh that poncy Fall Out Boy or something. You’ll be mercilessly beaten and thrown out on your arse if you do.

This morning, I’ve stumbled into the shop looking like Hell on wheels. My hair is disheveled, I haven’t showered in two days and my clothes smell like an ashtray drenched in fruity alcohol. Last night, while listening to the Smiths and other sad sod songs about love, I made myself cocktails of whiskey and the Hi-C Buffy left in the larder. Pathetic.

With blood-shot eyes, I gaze around the empty store and have the same epiphany I have every morning.

I detest this place more than life itself.

Everyday, it’s the same bloody thing. I stand around, pretending that at any minute, we’ll have an imminent customer. On a good day, we get three, maybe. Seven, tops. Weekends, the customers go into double digits, but rarely past three hands of fingers. All people do is drift into the store with their trendy haircuts and indie glossies and waste my time by aimlessly leafing through the racks before they meet up with their friends for a latte. I’ve considered placing a bouncer at the door, one who’ll ensure that the only people allowed in my store are there to spend money.

Oz is arranging the new releases display when he sees me grimace at the store in disgust. “Hey Buddy,” he says, giving me a friendly nod.

I nod back in slow motion, still in some syrupy hungover daze. After a few moments, I notice the musical discordance reverberating through the store. I frown. “What’s this you got on, Dead Boys?”

“I’m feeling in a riotous mood today,” Oz deadpans peaceably. He’s just one of the three other people that work here. I find this amount of customer service to be excessive when compared to our lack of customers. Still, I don’t have the heart to fire them all. It gives them something to do.

“Where’s Gunn?” I sigh, throwing my leather coat over the cash register.

“In the back. Stocking and drowning in the melodious melodies of Lil’ Wayne.”

“Great. And Xander?”

Oz shrugs. “You got me. Last night, he said something about making an epic Monday mix or something. We want these new Strokes CDs near the front, don’t we?”

“Sure.”

He must pick up on my low, sullen tone because his face changes and shifts into a concerned frown. “Hey. You okay?”

I nearly trip over the bloody carpet and hurl my guts out into the trashcan behind the register. “Yeah, I’m good.”

Bloody not. Have a headache the size of Russia and Buffy’s gone. I start to rub my temples and Oz reaches for the volume knob on the stereo.

“I can turn it down if you wa--”

I hold one hand up. “No leave it.” I don’t want things to seem abnormal. Besides, after my sad-sod-music-filled night, the Dead Boys are a welcome change. “Suits my mood as well.”

Just then, Xander strides through the door, jarring my eyes with his hideous ensemble. He’s wearing a Hawaiian shirt, for Chrissakes. When will the torture end?

“And how are you lovely creatures this morning?”

This guy is jovially obnoxious that I’d be compelled to hate him if he wasn’t a mate. Still, ours is a begrudging friendship. Oz introduced me to him and I gave him a job only because he was Willow’s best friend. After some snarky male posturing, we settled on a compromise of merely standing each other. It’s not so bad, I guess. He starts to grow on you. Like mold.

“Good,” Oz says and anxiously looks back at me. I have my head on the cashier’s desk and I don’t plan to pick it up for Xander’s sake.

Xander stands awhile, listening to the music we’ve got on. He makes a face. “”You Ragin’ Reggies listening to the cry of the snotty and disaffected, huh? Well I got something that really screams punk rock.”

He goes over to the stereo and slips in a cassette. He pumps up the volume and grins expectantly. And then the first note sounds. It’s the bloody "Itsy-Bitsy-Teeny-Weeny Yellow Polka Dot Bikini" song. Hideous.

Xander begins to throw his head up and down as the music fills the store. "You hear it guys? This is the real anti-establishment anthem! Stick it to the Man in style while grooving to the poppy rhythms!" He’s starting to do a dance something Oz and I have christened "the Snoopy Dance". Believe it or not, this goon has a girlfriend.

I grit my teeth. Buffy’s gone. I feel murderous. The last thing I want is to listen to this drivel. "Turn it off, Xander," I growl.

"Come on, Spikester! Get into it! She’s singing a narrative for the ages. It’s about a bikini. How could a song be bad if it’s about skimpy, womanly apparel?"

"This one is. Turn it off."

Gunn comes from the back room. "What the hell is this music?"

"It’s my Monday Morning Music compilation, dog," Xander notes gleefully, still waving his arms and legs around in a bizarre fashion. "This knocks the socks off P. Diddy, let me tell you what."

Gunn frowns at him. “Don’t get me started on Diddy. And what did I tell about the whole ‘dog’ thing?”

“Turn it off, Xander,” I warn him again.

“But you haven’t even gotten to the best track,” Xander whimpers.

“What is it?”

Xander smiles widely and fast-forwards the tape. I take a deep breath and prepare myself. Xander throws his head back and starts pumping his hands in the air. “I CAN FEEL SAINT ELMO’S FIRE BURNING INSIDE MEEEE,” he starts wailing and that’s when I crack my knuckles. I stalk to the stereo, grab the cassette out, and proceed to rip the tape up. Xander yelps and makes a jump for it, but I push him off.

"Hey man! That’s my tape!"

"Was your tape. And I’m doing you a favor. No man should subject himself to such terrible music." I smash the tape up with my bare hands, then throw it to the floor so I can give it a violent stomping. All the frustrations of the day, of the night, of my life are targeted on this helpless piece of plastic. The rest stare at me in confusion as I murder it.

"Hey chill out, G," Gunn says, reaching for my arm as I start to get out of control.

"Geez, Spike," Xander mumbles darkly. " It’s just a stupid tape, man. No need to have a temper tantrum. Man, you get more hormonal than Buffy during one of her "special" weeks."

The mention of her name breaks me. Blindly, I lunge for Xander’s throat and try to get my hands around his puny neck. I’m shaking him furiously, but Gunn and Oz grab and restrain me. There’s scuffling and some shrieking on Xander’s side, but in a minute, we’ve all calmed down and I’m stomping off towards the back, slamming the door thunderously.

Trying to calm myself, I collapse onto the sofa and attempt to think of nice things, things besides Buffy and women in general. I light up a fag and take deep, cathartic drags, but nothing seems to work. After a few moments brooding, there’s a knock on the door. Oz sticks his head in.

"Hey."

"Hey."

He enters the room awkwardly, He fidgets around for a while until he stops and hands me a CD. "Here. It’s that Sigur Ros CD you wanted me to burn. I did it a couple days ago and just forgot to give it to you."

Great. More sad sod music. I don’t know how much more of this depressing shite I can stand, but I take it from him. "Thanks," I lie.

He pauses, but decides to delve into it. "So I heard about you and Buffy."

I chuckle mirthlessly. "She already telling everyone her spin on things, I s'ppose?”

He shakes his head. "No. Willow told me this morning. Buffy was upset last night, and they stayed up pretty late talking about it."

So she’s upset and loosing sleep over me. This cheers me up immensely.

"Really?"

"Yeah. Listen, I’m really sorry."

"S’okay. What have you got to be sorry about? You still have a pretty lass at home."

"Look, if you want to talk . . ."

I try to envision what talking to Oz about this would look like. I can’t imagine anything besides the picture of us grunting monosyllabically to each other. "Naw, it’s alright."

"Well . . . I was wondering if you wanted to hang with Willow and me tonight. You know, just to get out of the house. We’re going to the Bronze. Some new band is playing there and they’re supposed to be pretty tight. You game?"

I think of the alternative. Me at home alone, watching reruns of Dawson’s Creek while binge drinking on Hi-C whiskey sours. "Yeah okay."

"Great." He turns to go.

"Hey Oz?"

He looks back at me. "Yeah?"

"Tell Xander if he ever brings in another tape like that, I’ll do worse than a hissy fit."

He laughs. "Okay."

After he leaves, I sit back and return to my diversionary game of thinking of things besides Buffy. Like motorcycles. And movies. There was a great-looking film I wanted to see at the cinema the other day. Buffy wanted to see it too. Buffy loves the cinema. In fact, we made love one time in the back of a movie theater and--bloody hell. Get the fuck out of my mind, you vixen.

The phone rings before I can continue screaming at Imaginary Buffy in my head. It’s my mum.

"Hello William dear, how are you doing?" she croons.

"Good, Mum." My flat tone isn’t exactly convincing.

"And how’s lovely Buffy?"

My knuckles go white against the phone. "Lovely Buffy is fine, Mum," I mutter, teeth grinding.

"You know, she’s a blessing, she really is. That girl keeps you in line. If it wasn’t for her, I would constantly be worrying after you. When you were a lad, all you did was cause me trouble. You need a good girl to take care of you. You’d go stark raving mad if you didn’t have Buffy--"

This is too much. This is officially “Take the Piss Out of Spike Day”.

"Well I guess it’s the strait jacket for me," I interrupt curtly. "Because I don’t have a Buffy after all."

Empty silence and I can almost hear her shake her head. "William . . . ?"

"That’s right. She’s gone. She’s left me."

Shrilly, she nearly shouts, "Gone where?"

"How am I supposed to know?!" I yell back.

"Well what did you do to her?!"

"What have I done?! What have I done?! Thanks for the lovely encouragement, you silly bint!"

She’s started crying. Good. I stretch out on the couch with satisfaction and listen to her blubber on. "H-how . . . William, you’ll never make anything of yourself," she gasps through sobs.

I sit up again and shout through the phone, "It’s just a girl, Mum! My life won’t turn to ruins over this.” In the back of my mind, I think fleetingly of Dru. Ha. Well it happened before . . .

"You’ll never get married. You’ll never have a family. The store will fail and you’ll have to live with your father and I again . . ."

I can’t take this. How did we get from Buffy leaving to me being a twenty-seven old living with his parents? "Oh shut the BLOODY HELL UP, Mum!!"

She’s dropped the phone. I’m about to hang up with relish, but a man has cleared his throat on the other line.

"William." It’s my dad, ol’ Rupes. "I do believe this is a record. Less than five minutes and already you’ve reduced your mother to tears. I’d commend you, but I’m the one who’ll have to deal with the aftermath."

"She started it. She couldn’t leave well enough alone. She just had to go on about . . ." I stop and realize I don’t feel much like saying her name at all.

Dad relieves me. "Yes, I heard what she was saying. And though I don’t approve of the way she handled it, I do share her concern. Would you like to talk about it?"

I bite back impatience. "Don’t worry about it, Rupert."

He sighs. “Once again, I prefer the term father. And as such, you know I’m always here for you.”

“Yeah.” The lingering pause that follows lets me know that he’s curious and waiting for explanations. I’m not gonna give ‘em.

“You’re not going to tell me, are you?” he says after awhile with a bit of bite in his voice.

“Hell no.”

“I’m afraid I’ll have to pry. Did you do something?”

“Ha! Thanks for leaping to that conclusion, Dad. That’s right supportive.”

“I apologize William, that wasn’t tactful. It’s just . . . a habit with you, isn’t it?”

“What is?” I say, knowing full well what he’s going to say.

“This. Alienating perfectly wonderful young ladies like Buffy, dragging them down into this pit of depression you insist on mucking about in.”

I grip the edge of the couch for control. “Why's it always about me? What makes you so sure there’s nothing wrong with her? She left me, Rupert.”

“I’m sure you gave her little choice in the matter. You have little-to-no drive or ambition, you lack a sense of control, especially in regards to your temper--”

“Listen, dear Father. I’ve had about as much bullshit as I can stand today and you’re pushin’ past the quota.”

I slam the phone down while Rupert loudly continues sermonizing. I take a few calming breathes before the phone rings again. With an incensed grunt, I snatch it and growl, “Listen you old chuffer, I don’t care what you have to say about my fucking love life, I’d rather not fucking hear it, so fuck off!"

No one speaks for several seconds and I realize that it’s not Rupes after all. A girl clears her throat and says, "Well good. Because I wasn’t really in the mood to discuss your love life right now. In fact, I was hoping we could avoid it." Damn it. It’s Buffy.

"Cor pet, I’m sorry, I mistook you for someone else, I didn’t know--"

She’s pauses and sounds guarded, as if me calling her pet is too intimate all of sudden. "It’s okay,” she says after awhile. “I’m just glad I’m not a ‘chuffer’. I didn’t think I sent out a ‘chuffer’ vibe." She laughs a little and the sweet lullaby of it sends shivers down my spine, but she drifts off into awkward silence. "So . . ."

This is it. This could make or break it. Maybe there’s a chance of getting back together. One phone conversation can work everything out and we can be together again by tonight, sitting on the couch, watching Curb Your Enthusiasm together. "So . . ." I reply carefully.

"I . . . I was just calling to see when I can come over to pick up my stuff."

One sentence and all my castles in the air are shattered. "Pick up your stuff?

"Well yeah. It would helpful to have it. It isn’t serving me by being somewhere else."

"So you’ve got a place to stay then?"

In a guarded tone, she mumbles, "Yeah."

"Who with? Willow and Oz?" Oz would have told me.

She sighs. "Spike, I don’t want to talk about it." This alarms me. If she doesn’t want to talk about it, that’s obviously something I want to talk about.

"Why?" I push, my voice getting harder by the second. "What’s wrong with me asking? Unless it’s somewhere bad, you’d tell me."

"Spike . . . just tell me when I can come over to get my stuff."

The question still nags at me like a bloody tick between my fingernails. But she’s the one who started it with all this "I don’t want to talk about it" business. "After you tell me where you’re staying."

"Forget it." She sounds tired. "Just forget it. I’ll have Xander or Willow pick my stuff up. Talk to you later."

"No wait. Wait, I’m sorry. I don’t mean it. You can come over tonight and get it."

"Will you be there?" she asks cautiously.

"Jesus, Buffy. I can’t even be there? What’s the big deal?"

"It’s not a big deal, I just think it would be easier that way. If I saw you, we’d only get into an argument and I thought we had finished all the hard parts last night."

"What makes you think we’d get into an argument?"

"When do we not?"

"So that’s it. You’re leaving because we have the occasional row."

"You know why I’m leaving. We went over this last night. I made myself clear."

"Obviously not clear enough if I’m asking you again. I want to know why."

"Spike . . ."

"A person doesn’t just stop loving someone, Buffy." I don’t know where that came from. It’s like the words have formed of their own accord.

Her voice is shaky. "I didn’t say I stopped loving you," she murmurs quietly.

"So what? So why is this happening?" I sound equally, if not more shaky. I feel like a bloody fool.

She sighs. "It’s not that easy to explain. All I know is it’s not because I don’t love you. I wish I didn’t love you anymore. It would make things a lot easier. But adult relationships are never that easy."

"Was it something I did, something I said?"

"Well duh. Obviously it was stuff you did and said."

"So it’s all my bloody fault then?"

"Look. I’m not going to give you the cop out and say ‘It’s not you, it’s me’. Because that’s only half-true. It’s both of us. We both brought an end to the relationship--"

"No. Don’t say that. Don’t say ‘the end’."

"Spike, please."

"Well, what do you want me to say? You want me to say I’m happy with this arrangement? I’m not. I want to know why. You haven’t told me why."

"I told you I don’t know! I don’t know a lot of things right now. My mind is hazy and confused. I’m not sure what I’m doing."

"But you know you love me. You do know that."

"I know I have to do this for myself,” she says, all steely-like. She sounds like a bloody Spice Girls song. Damned women’s lib.

"Just tell me you’ll clear out of the apartment for a few hours so I can organize my things?"

I sigh, full of defeat. "Fine. Whatever the fuck you want."

"Spike, don’t be like this."

"Then you don’t be like this! Come home, come home and be with me. That’s all I want."

Flatly, she mutters, "I have to go. I have to get back to work."

"Buffy, wait--"

Strangely, she pauses and says softly before hanging up, "I do still love you, you know."

What? Is that supposed to make me feel better?

I clench my teeth and fists, groaning miserably. Finally letting out a groan of rage, I kick the wall. I throw some papers and records around. I even hurl the couch over. Nothing works. The feeling is the same as it was in high school. Buffy hasn’t pushed my hands out of her knickers the way Darla did, but she’s made me just as stressed and bursting like a volcano about to ooze over into a fiery mess.





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