The Pressing Plant – Part 2: Side Two

The record came off the press on a Thursday.

The first copies emerged hot and glistening, black as polished stone, stacked in a tall shining pile. Tasha watched from behind the safety rail, her hand over her mouth. A worker in ear defenders slid one into a paper sleeve and handed it to her with a grin.

It was warm in her hands. It smelled of resin and new plastic. On the label, in small white letters: Tasha Bell. Side One.

"It's real," she whispered.

"It's yours," said Miles, beside her.

That evening, when the plant had emptied, they sat in the cutting room with the lamps low and the first copy on the turntable. The needle dropped. The song rose, warm and a little rough. Outside, the Detroit sky turned from orange to violet. A freight train rumbled by far off.

"I'm going to be sad when this is over," said Tasha.

"It's not over."

"The record's done."

"The record's done," said Miles. "But I've been wondering whether you'd write another."

"I've started one."

"I'd like to cut it."

She turned. His glasses caught the lamp. Behind them, his eyes were nervous and shining.

"Can I ask you something?" said Tasha.

"Yes."

"May I kiss you, Miles? I've been listening to your breathing through the headphones for two weeks."

He laughed, a startled, happy sound. "Yes. And if you say stop, you must play me every demo you've ever made."

"There are four hundred."

"I'm free."

She kissed him, gentle and warm, a hand rising to his beard. He kissed her back with slow, careful sweetness, tasting of coffee and peppermint. The record turned on, crackling softly, singing about a house she used to live in. The lamp glowed gold over the lathe.

When they parted, both of them were smiling.

"Green?" he asked.

"Green," said Tasha. "Very green."

Her second record came out the next spring. On the back, in tiny type: Cut by M. Listened to by two people, at least.

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