Saturday night

Saturday night, 1983. The kitchen counter becomes a stage. A spatula becomes a microphone. Cherelle and Alexander O’Neal spill from the radio, and someone—maybe you, maybe your mother, maybe the woman who lived here before, the one who left Avon catalogs curled in the drawer—is singing along, hips catching the rhythm against the harvest-gold Formica.

This is the world we dream of. When Kid Creole could sing about corruption and sweetness in the same breath. When The Jets believed in crushes that stayed crushes, uncomplicated, still intact.

Press play. Step back thirty years. Remember what Saturday love sounded like.