Singles Going Steady: The Smiths' "Please, Please, Please..."
That night, I walked the long way home from D____ Hall, chain-smoking and replaying the conversation over and over in my head:
"I think you know that I'm interested in you. And I'm pretty sure you're interested in me. Am I right? … You had every opportunity to tell me that you had a boyfriend but you didn't. Why not?"
Yes, Iseult, I thought. Why not? What made me madder, I couldn't decide: That Matthew called me out, or that I lied? If I was so happy with Victor, why not tell Matthew about him?
"If you ever want to see me, I'm here. I don't care about the boyfriend. I don't want to know anything about it. All you have to do is call me. No questions, no strings."
I liked to think of myself as a reasonably honest person. Sainthood wasn't in my future, or anything like that, but cheating? Victor and I were having a rough time, that was true, but it didn't give me license to cheat. We can work it out. We always do. As soon as he figures out his job situation, things will be back to normal, I know it … I stubbed out my cigarette and unlocked my front door.
***
Over the next few days, though I tried hard not to, I continued to stew. I alternated between being furious at Matthew for being so cavalier and dismissive about my relationship and being furious at myself for my culpable behavior. Then I was angry with Victor for neglecting our relationship, then angry with myself for doing nothing about it. I'd been with Victor for almost four years, since high school. I didn't follow him to Ohio State—at least, that's what I liked to tell myself so I could retain some shred of independence. But when I got there, I wasn't expecting to have such adjustment problems. I hated my dorm, hated most of the people on my floor, missed my dad, was broke, felt over my head academically, and was generally miserable my first year. Victor was there through the whole mess. All I had to do was call him, and he'd come and get me, take me out, study with me, talk me down—whatever I needed. Now, a year later, I was settled and relatively happy with my life at school; meanwhile, he was beginning to crack. It was my turn to repay his kindness.
Fuck you, Matthew. You don't know anything about me, I was indignant after hours of analyzing and reanalyzing everything he said. I wanted to stop thinking about it and him. I wanted an apology. I fished his number out of my trashcan. "Hi, Matthew? It's Iseult."
"Hey! What a surprise. How are you?"
I wasn't really sure what to say next, "Fine."
"Good. I'm—"
I plowed ahead, "Listen, we need to talk—I need to talk to you. Are you busy?"
"Not really. You want to go—?"
"No." Then I thought it would be that much sweeter to get the apology in person, "Wait—Yes. Meet me at Arabica."
"Okay. Give me a half hour."
It was cold, and I had been in such a hurry to leave my house, I hadn't brought any gloves. I stood outside of Arabica and smoked, shifting my weight from foot to foot and rubbing my arms. A small blue car pulled up and Matthew got out. His hair was messy and his cheeks were rosy. He looked like he'd just gotten out of the shower and I was embarrassed that I was thinking about him taking a shower. My stomach was in knots, "Hi."
He smiled. He smelled like lemons. "Hi." He pulled out a cigarette, "May I?" I handed him my lighter. He exhaled a cloud of smoke and squinted at me. He wasn't wearing his glasses. "Want to go inside?"
I did, my toes were growing more numb by the second, but this wasn't some friendly chat; I had to remain steadfast, "No. Out here is fine."
"But you're obviously freezing—"
"Don't tell me how I am."
He raised his eyebrows, "Okay…So, what do you want to talk about?"
"Well—I think—we shouldn't talk anymore," The big speech I had for him fell out of my head into the street, turned to ice, and shattered all over the place.
He laughed, "You asked me here to tell me we shouldn't talk anymore?"
I hated that he was laughing at me and now my teeth were chattering, "Y-Yes we shouldn't talk anymore about—what you said. In Avery's office."
He breathed into his hands and rubbed them together. "Hey—let's at least go sit in my car, okay? I'm freezing."
He opened the passenger door for me and walked around to the other side. He started the car and turned on the heater, ejected the tape that was playing, but not before I identified the song: "Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want" by The Smiths. You and me both, Morrissey, I thought.
"Warm enough?"
I nodded, hoping that my brain would thaw quickly so that I could regain control of the situation.
He turned toward me, "Listen, Iseult, about that, what I said, you're absolutely right. It was inappropriate of me and I'm sorry if I made you feel uncomfortable. I was an asshole—"
Ha! This is going very well! "Yes. You were."
"It's just—I thought maybe you were feeling…I don't know. I had no right to make the assumptions I did. I'm sorry," he rested his elbows on the steering wheel. "And if you don't want to talk to me anymore, I completely understand."
I got what I wanted, he apologized, and yet...I was disappointed. I didn't want this to be the last time we ever talked, did I? I waffled, "It's not that I don't want to talk to you. We work in the same place—I don't want things to be weird. We just have to be professional. Understand?"
"Professional. Absolutely."
"Good. Okay, then." The heat felt really good and I started feeling my feet again, "Well, I'm going to go."
"You want a ride?"
"No, that's okay," I zipped up my coat.
"You sure? It's on my way."
"No, really, I'm good," I was having a hard time figuring out the door handle.
"It's tricky, sometimes. Here," he reached across me and jiggled the latch. "This car has been through a lot. Good car, though."
"Oh yeah?" Why did I suddenly want to hear him tell me everything about his car?
"Yeah. I've had it since high school."
"Okay, well, I'm going to go," I turned toward him. His cheeks were still rosy and my stomach started to hurt. Iseult, professional. Stay professional, "Bye," I reached out my hand for him to shake.
He looked down at it and smiled, started to shake it, then held on. His hand was so warm. I stared at his mouth and thought about what it would feel like to kiss him. He started to say something, I leaned over and planted my lips on his. After a while, he pulled back and said, "This isn't very professional, is it."
I pulled him back to my mouth, "Stop talking."
It was unbelievable—the best kiss I'd ever had by far, like he did it for a living. If the gearshift hadn't been stabbing me in the thigh, who knows how long I could have stayed just like that. I sat back in my seat feeling 1,000 different kinds of fantastic. Out of the corner of my eye I saw some people on the sidewalk looking in at us. That's when I freaked out. "Oh my God. I'm sorry. I really have to go," I fumbled for the door handle.
"Hey, it's okay. Don't—"
"I have a—I have got to get out of here."
Half out of the car, he grabbed my sleeve and pulled me back into the seat, "Iseult—wait. Can I say something first? Please?"
"Okay, yes. Fine. Hurry," I put my head in my hands, pulse pounding in my ears.
"Can you at least look at me?" I peered at him through my fingers. "I want you to know, my offer? From Avery's office? Still stands."
It was getting difficult to breathe. "I have to go," I sprinted out of the car and toward my apartment without looking back.
The Smiths, "Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want"
From the album, Louder Than Bombs
Released in the late 1980s
"I think you know that I'm interested in you. And I'm pretty sure you're interested in me. Am I right? … You had every opportunity to tell me that you had a boyfriend but you didn't. Why not?"
Yes, Iseult, I thought. Why not? What made me madder, I couldn't decide: That Matthew called me out, or that I lied? If I was so happy with Victor, why not tell Matthew about him?
"If you ever want to see me, I'm here. I don't care about the boyfriend. I don't want to know anything about it. All you have to do is call me. No questions, no strings."
I liked to think of myself as a reasonably honest person. Sainthood wasn't in my future, or anything like that, but cheating? Victor and I were having a rough time, that was true, but it didn't give me license to cheat. We can work it out. We always do. As soon as he figures out his job situation, things will be back to normal, I know it … I stubbed out my cigarette and unlocked my front door.
***
Over the next few days, though I tried hard not to, I continued to stew. I alternated between being furious at Matthew for being so cavalier and dismissive about my relationship and being furious at myself for my culpable behavior. Then I was angry with Victor for neglecting our relationship, then angry with myself for doing nothing about it. I'd been with Victor for almost four years, since high school. I didn't follow him to Ohio State—at least, that's what I liked to tell myself so I could retain some shred of independence. But when I got there, I wasn't expecting to have such adjustment problems. I hated my dorm, hated most of the people on my floor, missed my dad, was broke, felt over my head academically, and was generally miserable my first year. Victor was there through the whole mess. All I had to do was call him, and he'd come and get me, take me out, study with me, talk me down—whatever I needed. Now, a year later, I was settled and relatively happy with my life at school; meanwhile, he was beginning to crack. It was my turn to repay his kindness.
Fuck you, Matthew. You don't know anything about me, I was indignant after hours of analyzing and reanalyzing everything he said. I wanted to stop thinking about it and him. I wanted an apology. I fished his number out of my trashcan. "Hi, Matthew? It's Iseult."
"Hey! What a surprise. How are you?"
I wasn't really sure what to say next, "Fine."
"Good. I'm—"
I plowed ahead, "Listen, we need to talk—I need to talk to you. Are you busy?"
"Not really. You want to go—?"
"No." Then I thought it would be that much sweeter to get the apology in person, "Wait—Yes. Meet me at Arabica."
"Okay. Give me a half hour."
It was cold, and I had been in such a hurry to leave my house, I hadn't brought any gloves. I stood outside of Arabica and smoked, shifting my weight from foot to foot and rubbing my arms. A small blue car pulled up and Matthew got out. His hair was messy and his cheeks were rosy. He looked like he'd just gotten out of the shower and I was embarrassed that I was thinking about him taking a shower. My stomach was in knots, "Hi."
He smiled. He smelled like lemons. "Hi." He pulled out a cigarette, "May I?" I handed him my lighter. He exhaled a cloud of smoke and squinted at me. He wasn't wearing his glasses. "Want to go inside?"
I did, my toes were growing more numb by the second, but this wasn't some friendly chat; I had to remain steadfast, "No. Out here is fine."
"But you're obviously freezing—"
"Don't tell me how I am."
He raised his eyebrows, "Okay…So, what do you want to talk about?"
"Well—I think—we shouldn't talk anymore," The big speech I had for him fell out of my head into the street, turned to ice, and shattered all over the place.
He laughed, "You asked me here to tell me we shouldn't talk anymore?"
I hated that he was laughing at me and now my teeth were chattering, "Y-Yes we shouldn't talk anymore about—what you said. In Avery's office."
He breathed into his hands and rubbed them together. "Hey—let's at least go sit in my car, okay? I'm freezing."
He opened the passenger door for me and walked around to the other side. He started the car and turned on the heater, ejected the tape that was playing, but not before I identified the song: "Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want" by The Smiths. You and me both, Morrissey, I thought.
"Warm enough?"
I nodded, hoping that my brain would thaw quickly so that I could regain control of the situation.
He turned toward me, "Listen, Iseult, about that, what I said, you're absolutely right. It was inappropriate of me and I'm sorry if I made you feel uncomfortable. I was an asshole—"
Ha! This is going very well! "Yes. You were."
"It's just—I thought maybe you were feeling…I don't know. I had no right to make the assumptions I did. I'm sorry," he rested his elbows on the steering wheel. "And if you don't want to talk to me anymore, I completely understand."
I got what I wanted, he apologized, and yet...I was disappointed. I didn't want this to be the last time we ever talked, did I? I waffled, "It's not that I don't want to talk to you. We work in the same place—I don't want things to be weird. We just have to be professional. Understand?"
"Professional. Absolutely."
"Good. Okay, then." The heat felt really good and I started feeling my feet again, "Well, I'm going to go."
"You want a ride?"
"No, that's okay," I zipped up my coat.
"You sure? It's on my way."
"No, really, I'm good," I was having a hard time figuring out the door handle.
"It's tricky, sometimes. Here," he reached across me and jiggled the latch. "This car has been through a lot. Good car, though."
"Oh yeah?" Why did I suddenly want to hear him tell me everything about his car?
"Yeah. I've had it since high school."
"Okay, well, I'm going to go," I turned toward him. His cheeks were still rosy and my stomach started to hurt. Iseult, professional. Stay professional, "Bye," I reached out my hand for him to shake.
He looked down at it and smiled, started to shake it, then held on. His hand was so warm. I stared at his mouth and thought about what it would feel like to kiss him. He started to say something, I leaned over and planted my lips on his. After a while, he pulled back and said, "This isn't very professional, is it."
I pulled him back to my mouth, "Stop talking."
It was unbelievable—the best kiss I'd ever had by far, like he did it for a living. If the gearshift hadn't been stabbing me in the thigh, who knows how long I could have stayed just like that. I sat back in my seat feeling 1,000 different kinds of fantastic. Out of the corner of my eye I saw some people on the sidewalk looking in at us. That's when I freaked out. "Oh my God. I'm sorry. I really have to go," I fumbled for the door handle.
"Hey, it's okay. Don't—"
"I have a—I have got to get out of here."
Half out of the car, he grabbed my sleeve and pulled me back into the seat, "Iseult—wait. Can I say something first? Please?"
"Okay, yes. Fine. Hurry," I put my head in my hands, pulse pounding in my ears.
"Can you at least look at me?" I peered at him through my fingers. "I want you to know, my offer? From Avery's office? Still stands."
It was getting difficult to breathe. "I have to go," I sprinted out of the car and toward my apartment without looking back.
The Smiths, "Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want"
From the album, Louder Than Bombs
Released in the late 1980s
posted by Iseult at 3:48 PM
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