the women at the counter waits, anxiously crumpling and uncrumpling the tip of the twenty in her hands. i stand beside her and tap my nails, chewed down, against the soft surface of the check out desk.

i try to pretend i can't hear the way she sucks on her tongue as she waits, clearly, she is pressed for time. perhaps because of this, she does not notice me at first, or the imaginary orchestra being played out on my hands.

when she does, her eyes are speculative, curious; she eyes the compact disk held up by my littlest finger, and the ipod in my ears. i pretend i don't see her staring and flick my fingers across the surface of the silver nano in my pocket. the volume climbs, and i almost miss her words.

"simon and garfunkel?" she asks, tilting her head to the side trying to read the hastily scribbled words across the surface of this disk. i stop in my strum and with my free hand, flick the volume down.

"what?" i ask, and she smiles softly.

"simon and garfunkel?" she asks again, and i nod, pursing my lips. i hesitate.

"frank sinatra, too." i say as the track ends and a soft chord plays in my ear. she waits for me to continue and i sigh. "you like that kind of stuff?" i ask, and i know she must because she's a good thirty years older than me at least. she nods. her smile brightens.

"oh, yes." she says, looking thoughtful, as she twists the tip of the bill in manicured fingers. "but i grew up with rock. . ." she glances down then, at the book in my hand and pulls a face. "helen keller? there's a rap song about her, something about shaking her hips. i told my daughter she's deaf and blind, can't hear the beat, idiots."

"i hate rap," i say and i try not to notice the hostility in her voice and how it clashes with the smile on her face. "mostly, i get the feeling the people singing it don't care about what they're doing, and the music has no meaning." she nods, knowingly, blonde pony-tail bobbing up and down with the movement.

"i know what you mean." she says, "it's just noise."

i think about how i hate that sort of music, screamo and heavy metal. i tell her i don't like these things, and she asks if i've heard of switchfoot. i havent and i tell her so. she grins, "they're good." she says, standing up straighter. "if you've got the internet you should give them a listen. they're christian. i love christian bands."

i tell her the red is a christian band, but they would never say so. then i tell her about skillet, because i like that band. she tells me she met both of them in concert just last week. i smile, "really?" i ask and she nods.

"yeah, we prayed together." she says, then: "i especially loved their songs, they sing about god and jesus, and being saved. it's rock but it's pure. not like that crap my kids used to listen to. thank god i got them away from that."

"what kind of music was that?" i ask and she shrugs.

"ozzy osborne, marilyn manson. they're awful." she says, with a sneer. "nothing christian about them." i bite down on my lower lip, and move my hand, feeling the cool smooth feeling of the cover beneath my fingers.

my eyes look down at the blue tinted face of a young woman. i wonder if she's really helen keller like the book says. i wonder if helen keller is even helen keller. i think about the rap song, the one that i know is less rap and more alternative rock. the song whose title i can't recall, but i know it's by 3oh!3. i don't tell her this, of course. instead, i say: "i like marilyn manson. ozzy osborne too."

the smile on the woman's face falls and she looks away from me, a dark expression on her face. "they're awful people."

"they're good singers." i say, and i want to tell her how i'm not like my sister who reads magazines in an endless attempt to find out what's happening to her favorite actors and actresses. i want to tell her how i'm not like that, how i don't care what's going on with them in real life, i only care about the movie. the movie is really all that matters, after all.

instead, i flick the disk in my hand, and say: "not always, but sometimes. they're good singers."

but she's lost interest in me. in my likes and dislikes, and i know it's because i think differently than she does, in a way she doesn't understand. and she knows that now. i watch her pay the librarian with the graying hair for the ten pages of fax, and the ten before. i wait for her to say something else, but she doesn't. she gathers up her things without a second glance at me and, shouldering her purse, she leaves.

the bell on the library door dings as i watch her go. the librarian taps my shoulder. "hey, did you read this?" she asks, looking at the book beneath my fingers. i shake my head

"i wanna read the biography first." i say, thinking about it sitting at home on my desk. she nods.

"i see. so you're returning it then?" i nod back.

"yeah. . ." i say, and lower my eyes to the cover of a women who may or may not have been helen keller.

i think: I bet she could feel the beat.