Soundtrack of Our Lives, Tel Aviv, Tel Aviv

Just like he'd said he would, and just like I'd agreed to, he'd called me on Wednesday to make plans to go to the bookstore that night. I was lying on my futon, heard the phone ring, looked at the caller ID, saw that it said "M.S. K_____," and waited for the machine to pick up.
"Hey, this message is for Iseult. Iseult, it's Matthew K_____. I was just calling to see what time you wanted to meet tonight. I have a review session until about seven, so I was thinking maybe eight? Let's meet at S____'s for coffee and walk over to the bookstore after. If that works for you, give me a call—well, give me a call, either way—at 555-5498 and leave me a message, okay? Bye."
I rolled over and played the message three or four times before I deleted it.

That next week, at Professor Avery's office, when I heard the knock, I knew it would be Matthew. Shit, I was listening to Tel Aviv on Avery's crappy boom box, which you had to turn up to 11 just to sort of hear something. I reached over the desk to turn it off, right in the middle of "I Like Your Style," which had become one of my favorite songs, and waited. I'd been keeping a low profile around the building since the bookstore incident. I knew I should have called him back, should have never gotten myself into that situation in the first place. I spent the greater part of the weekend feeling guilty about telling Matthew I'd go. I thought about him a lot, which only made me feel guiltier, especially since Victor and I seemed to be on an upswing. Saturday night we went out, he was in good spirits, had a lead on a job. We talked, really talked, for the first time in months. Dinner and drinks, it was almost like old times, save for the lines we did in the car on the way to the Mohawk. "To celebrate," he said. "I think this job could be mine." Other than that, though, old times…

More knocking and an, "Iseult? I know you're in there." Shit, I was hoping that he would just forget about it and ignore me if he saw me, but I knew that he would do neither of those things.
I got up and opened the door. "Hey."
"Hey," I felt a jolt in my heart.
"Can I come in?"
I nodded and went back to the desk. He shut the door and sat down across from me, "So, what happened last week? You never called me back. What's the deal?"
I started to ramble, "Yeah, I know. And I'm sorry. It was really lame of me to do that." I was sure he could see the heat from my face coming off in waves—like in a cartoon.
"Yeah. It was."
"I know. I said I was sorry. And I am," I started to fidget in my chair. I tapped my pencil and looked at the floor, the desk, the door, anywhere but at him.
He leaned forward, rested his elbows on the desk and fixed me with that look—the one he gave me at the bulletin board, "Can I ask you something?"
"Okay."
"Are you seeing someone?"
I exhaled, thought about lying, "Yes. I am."
"Seriously?"
I felt sweaty, "Do you mean, am I seeing someone seriously? Or, seriously, am I seeing someone?"
"Oh man, ______ majors. I forgot who I was dealing with. I mean, is it serious?"
"Yes," I rasped.
He leaned back and nodded his head, as he let that sink in. Then he smiled, "I don't care."
I sat up and squinted at him, "Sorry?"
He took off his glasses and cleaned them on his sleeve, "I don't care that you're with someone."
"You don't?"
"No," he put his glasses back on. "Look, I think you know that I'm interested in you. And I'm pretty sure you're interested in me. Am I right?" He looked me square in the face.
"You think that I'm interested in you?" I slid back my chair and crossed my arms. "That's—that's awfully presumptuous, isn't it?" He knows, I thought. Can he see it on my face? Can everyone?
He laughed, "You had every opportunity to tell me that you had a boyfriend but you didn't. Why not? I mean, I was clearly asking you out. Wouldn't that have been the best time to tell me? "

Good question. I fumbled with the buttons on my sweater and looked down, "Well, it didn't come up?" That was all I could think of. Worse, I was uptalking, which made me sound like a complete moron.
"Good answer. I ask you out and instead of saying you can't because you have a boyfriend, you say you can't because you have things to do. What is that?" He shook his head, "You know, from the first day I saw you—at the copier—I've been interested in you. Every time I've talked to you since—at the mailboxes, the coffee maker, the bulletin board—I've gone over those conversations in my head a thousand times. That you have a boyfriend, it doesn't change how I feel, and you're right: it is presumptuous, but I think you feel something, too." He stood up and put his bag over his shoulder. "So I'm going to throw this out there: 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."

My mind was spinning. I'd expected something like, "Okay, well, see you." But not that. Definitely not that. "Really, I don't know what to say," I stood up and leaned on the desk. My legs felt wobbly.
He went to the door and turned around, "Say you'll think about it." Then he walked out and down the stairs.
I shut the door and slid down to the floor. I sat there for a minute; the glass was cool, a salve to my over-warm skin. When I went back over to the desk, I noticed a slip of paper on the chair he was sitting in: It was his number.

Tel Aviv, Tel Aviv
Advance copy from KBUX, the Underground
Fall 2005