THE NEEDLE DROP 004
Homie, Lover, Friend
A Saturday night, an eight o'clock reservation, and the kind of chemistry that can make two people forget they're supposed to be somewhere.
“Ascension (Don't Ever Wonder)” — Maxwell
Before the Needle Drops
Put on “Ascension (Don't Ever Wonder).”
Start from the beginning. Give the bass line a moment to settle in.
There's a particular confidence to this record. The kind that makes somebody straighten their shirt, check themselves in the mirror one more time, and suddenly remember they've got somewhere to be.
Preferably on time.
Press play.
Then read.
The reservation was for eight.
At 7:38, she stood in front of the bedroom mirror, deciding whether the earrings were too much. Her dress fit exactly how she'd hoped, her makeup was behaving, and Maxwell's Ascension was coming through the speakers.
She turned it up.
From the hallway came a voice attempting to hit a note it had absolutely no business attempting.
“Please don't do that,” she called.
He appeared in the doorway, still singing.
“Baby, Maxwell didn't even sound like that on the record.”
He put a hand to his chest.
“That's hate.”
“That's concern.”
He continued his performance, sliding across the bedroom floor in his socks.
Black shirt. Fresh haircut. That cologne.
She gave him a once-over.
“Well, look at you.”
He extended his hand.
“Come here.”
“My earrings aren't even on.”
“Your ears will survive.”
She took his hand.
He pulled her close, one hand settling at her waist as they moved to the music. She was halfway through telling him Maxwell had nothing to worry about when he stopped performing.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then he smiled.
“That look is about to make us late.”
“Then stop looking so good.”
He kissed her.
She kissed him back until she remembered the reservation.
“Go. Before we end up ordering takeout.”
“Wouldn't be the first time.”
“Goodbye.”
He left the room laughing.
Maxwell was nearing the end of the song.
She restarted it.
They arrived at the restaurant seventeen minutes late.
He'd called ahead, which she found unnecessarily dramatic.
“You act like I'm always late.”
He looked at her.
“Go ahead,” she said. “Say it.”
“I didn't say anything.”
“Your face did.”
He unfolded his napkin.
“My face has been through a lot.”
She kicked him lightly beneath the table.
They ordered the appetizer she'd been talking about since Tuesday.
She took one bite and frowned.
“Something's different.”
He didn't even look up from his plate.
“Here we go.”
“I'm serious.”
“You said the same thing last time.”
“Because it was different last time.”
He picked up another bite.
“I'm going to need you to write a letter.”
“I might.”
“I know.”
Later, he mentioned an idea he'd been sitting on for a while. She expected him to talk himself out of it, the way he sometimes used to.
Instead, he'd already researched what it would take, spoken to someone who'd done something similar, and figured out where he could start.
She set down her glass.
“Okay. You've really thought this through.”
“Surprised?”
“A little.”
“Wow.”
“No, I mean—” She laughed. “You know what I mean.”
“I do. I'm just enjoying this.”
She reached across the table.
“I like seeing you excited about something.”
He turned his hand over and caught hers.
“What about that thing you were telling me last week?”
She told him where she'd gotten stuck. He listened, then asked whether she was hesitating because the idea needed more work or because she was worried about what people might think.
She stared at him.
“Who sent you?”
He laughed.
“Answer the question.”
“I'm trying to enjoy my dinner.”
“You brought it up.”
“Unfortunately.”
She took another bite, considering it.
He didn't rush to fill the silence.
Dessert arrived with two spoons.
He reached for the plate before she could get a bite.
“Excuse me.”
“What?”
“You ordered this for me.”
“I ordered it for us.”
“Interesting. Because I distinctly remember saying I wanted dessert and you saying you were full.”
“I've recovered.”
She moved the plate to her side of the table.
“Then you can recover over there.”
He held out his spoon.
She gave him a bite.
A small one.
On the drive home, she had her shoes off, one foot tucked beneath her.
A familiar bass line came through the speakers.
Maxwell again.
“Not you playing this twice.”
“You restarted it earlier.”
“That was different.”
“How?”
“I was enjoying the music.”
“And what am I doing?”
She turned toward him.
He grinned.
At the next red light, he reached for her hand.
“You looked good tonight,” he said.
“Tonight?”
“Here we go.”
She laughed and turned up the volume.
They'd heard it hundreds of times.
Apparently, neither of them was tired of it.
After the Needle Lifts
Let the record finish.
Or play it again.
Some songs still have a little flirting left in them.