The record player was old. Its needle was dulled at the point, the records all scratched beyond recognition. Pluto selected the least damaged one and put it on the player. A few strangled violin notes shrieked out and then static. Just static. Like the sweeping of those old straw brooms against wood floors, the bristles snapping and sticking in the cracks between the floorboards.

With a sigh, Pluto wiped the dust off the record player and then wiped his hand off on his vest. The wool was scratchy against his palms. He wandered over to the general store’s front window. Beyond the glass, the world glowed, pale gray light melting into the deep black of night. Pluto pushed up his glasses, the chain swinging against his jaw, and squinted at the line where day met night. It swirled around, water mixing with ink. When enough of the sky had brightened, he flipped the sign on the window from closed to open.

Pluto sat behind the register, breathing in the still, dusty air of the store. He tapped the keys on the register, listening to the faint click making music with the static. After several minutes, the front door swung open, the bell above it chiming wildly. An elderly woman walked into the store. She wore an old fashioned nightgown, the pink silky kind that fell nearly to the floor. Her hair was pulled back neatly from her face, revealing her bright, alert eyes. Pluto didn’t greet her. She wasn’t the kind of customer that needed greeting. She was the kind that was waiting.

The woman circled around the store, her slippers shuffling against the ground. She observed the shelves of children’s toys, of clothing, of pickled vegetables and hard candies. Quietly, she laughed to herself, the sound like a breath of wind. Like most customers, she was surprised by the wide selection of items. Pluto almost asked if he could help her find something, but he held his tongue. She didn’t need anything he could offer. She was looking for someone, not something.

The woman came to a stop in front of the record player. She frowned, listening to the static. Then, instinctively, her hand reached out to the pile of records. They were unlabeled, but somehow she knew just which one to pick. She placed it on the player. Despite all the scratches on its surface, it began to play.

Pluto didn’t know the song, not really at least. He’d long since lost touch with popular culture. But he’d heard a customer play it once before, that time on a cassette tape.

This was my first dance, she’d said. At my wedding.

She had been waiting for someone too, but she was much younger than this woman and the person she was waiting for had much to do before he could meet her. So Pluto had to usher her along to the next stop after his little general store.

Pluto looked at his wrist. The second hand on his watch ticked steadily around, right on time.

“He’ll be here any minute now,” he said quietly. The woman nodded at him, acknowledging his presence for the first time. Her shoulders slumped with relief.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Finally, the door opened again, the bell chiming in time to the music. A man stepped in, dressed in striped blue pajamas. Seeing the couple together, reminded Pluto of a book a child showed him during a long passed December. The Night Before Christmas. He remembered exactly what shelf it was on. The child had laughed at the pictures of the parents in the story, with their outdated pajamas.

My mom and dad just wear plain clothes to sleep, she’d giggled.

The man and woman in his store now were the spitting image of the couple from the book. Pluto wondered what the girl would say if she could see them. But there was no use pondering over such things. That girl was long gone, and soon, the couple would be too.

For a moment, the man was confused. He blinked his eyes several times, scanning the store’s wood shelves and flickering single bulb lights. Then he heard the music and his face went slack. The confusion left his eyes, a fog blowing out over clear water. His gaze fell on the woman. She was still standing by the record player, her hands neatly clasped. She watched him patiently, a small smile tugging at her lips.

“You’re late, my love,” she said gently.

“Sorry, dear.” The man crossed the store to her. They wrapped their arms around each other and began to sway to the music. Pluto had seen a great many dances in his time. Ballerinas, ballroom dancers, Broadway performers. All of them had passed through his store. Some dances were about strength or beauty, but he found that dances like this one touched him most. The kinds of dances that took their time, that didn’t try to impress anyone. The kinds of dances that were about the love poured into them. “I always was a bit forgetful.”

“It’s no matter.” Pluto noticed that the woman had tears in her eyes. They glistened like glass in the dim shop lighting. “You’re here now.”

Pluto rested his chin on his hand and watched the couple dance. He didn’t need to look at his watch to know they had little time left. The music slowed, nearing the song’s end. As the final notes played out, the image of the couple dancing became faint. They faded away, turning translucent like ghosts before disappearing entirely.

Pluto let the rest of the song play out before removing the record and returning it to the pile. He didn’t know where anyone went after they got what they needed from his store. He didn’t think he wanted to know.

Already putting the couple’s last dance out of his mind, Pluto returned to the register. He turned his eyes towards the door, waiting, like always, for the next customer to arrive.