“Wait, I thought I had pants on when I started this song.”
“My clothes caught fire and fell off.”
-Anonymous YouTube comments for Barry White
The setting:
My house, but not my everyday house. Every book and scrap of paper usually piled on one end of the dining room table removed, leaving an expanse of shine. The table set for two. Cloth napkins. Wine breathing in the elegant antique decanter bought just for this purpose but rarely used. Gold-rimmed wine goblets to match. The wine itself is a work of art, hand selected by the wine shop guy to be reminiscent of the Joseph Phelps Le Mistral I remember from two decades/two relationships/one state ago and is no longer produced: a Rhone-inspired syrah and grenache blend, round and smooth as it caresses and opens each taste bud.
I have set out three small bowls of irresistible crunchy/salty finger foods, just like they do at an upscale hotel lounge, to make sure we don’t rush into dinner, make the evening go more slowly. Two long taper candles are lit, the lights are dimmed, the air is fragrant with marinated leg of lamb baking in the oven, Barry White Radio is on Pandora.
I just made the station today. We have all kinds of blues and jazz and classical music stations, and of course, my Lyle Lovett, but tonight I wanted seduction music. I created the station, poured a glass of wine, and wondered exactly what kinds of songs would play. Halfway through “Can’t get enough of your love baby” there I was, swaying and sashaying around the kitchen, hips and shoulders released to a world of their own. The music is round and smooth, just like the wine, caressing and opening different buds. The room is full of temptation and lust; Marvin Gaye, The Four Tops, Barry White and Al Green are right there with me, their deep voices sliding into notes that are the very best kind of obscene. I wonder if my husband will laugh, or think it’s cheesy, to walk in the door and hear the new station. It’s not like Barry White is subtle. With all the sensory experiences he’s about to encounter, I hope the music will work on him just the way it has whenever a man has used Barry White to begin the . . . beguine.
Tonight it’s in reverse; Barry and I have begun. My husband takes it all in the moment he enters the house. His eyes widen and he smiles. He hands me a bouquet of pale purple roses. He laughs when he hears the music, but it’s the good kind of laugh. One song reminds him of his 9th grade love. He remembers everything; I remember my own everything. We glide on the music from memories to a sense of what’s to come. And we’re still at the finger food.
Mmmmmm. Sigh.