The Racket Friday FAQ: Volume 4, Special Monday Edition

My people, once again I have to bounce out of here for a week. This time, it's for work, and based on the staff schedule I just got? It's not looking so good for a midweek update, even. So I'm leaving you with this hastily written Special Semi-Multilingual Monday Edition of the Racket Friday FAQ. Don't hate—appreciate. Grazie, i miei lettori bei. Siete tutti gioielli preziosi! To the mailbox!

Q: Y don't U just break up with Vikter [sic]? He sounds like a loser!
Q: Why are you wasting your time with Victor? He sounds like a loser.
Q: Victor sounds like a loser—you should break up with him.

A: Ah, gentle reader. The follies of youth are many and varied, are they not? While doing the research for the Matthew/Victor stories (i.e., re-reading my old journals), I asked myself that very same question many, many times. But if I'd simply broken up with him, there wouldn't be a story, right?

Q: Matthew creeps me out.
Q: Matthew is soooooo cheezy [sic]! Ew!
Q: Matthew is the kind of guy whose ass I would have kicked in college. What a tool.

A: Wow. You cats really have no love for Matthew. Tough crowd. Listen, remember what I said about the follies of youth being many and varied? That's all I got for you. The only other thing I can say is that I was 20. Twenty-year-olds are not exactly paragons of virtue and wisdom. Think of yourself now. Got a good picture? Okay, now think of yourself at 20. Would Today's You get along with Twenty's You?

This is a cautionary tale. Or maybe it's more like a bildungsroman. Don't worry—the schadenfreude is about to pick up speed. Just keep reading, bitte. Danke.

Q: Was Victor working for Bill Clinton? The timeline seems to work for that.

A: Look at you, Nancy Drew! Close-ish, but no cigar (HAW!). Though I did meet President Clinton—along with VP Gore and Tipper, and the aforementioned Congressman Kennedy—during that time.

Q: This story, while often good, is hard to follow since none of titles tell you what part of the story you're reading. Can you list the order of the stories somewhere? Thanks.

A: Oui. Voila:
Jane's Addiction
Beastie Boys
Everything But The Girl
Tel Aviv
The Smiths
Kristin Hersh
Cocteau Twins
Steely Dan
Tricky
New Order
Frank Sinatra
Atlantic Starr
Luscious Jackson
Elvis Costello

So, mes petits lapins, we must part ways, for now. If I can post the next part from the road, I will. If not, I will do my best to re-curry your favor next week. Bisous.

Singles Going Steady: Elvis Costello's "Alison"

After an excruciating hour of sitting there and trying to act normal, I gave up and told Victor and Def that I was ready to call it a night. Victor walked me home and wanted to hang out, but I fed him some story about needing to study and not feeling well. It wasn't really necessary, though—I felt pretty sick. He kissed me goodbye. I waited until I heard the door click then called Matthew.
He picked up on the first ring, "I knew this would be you."
"Can we talk?"
"Of course. Come over."

He was listening to Elvis Costello's My Aim Is True. "Alison" was just starting as I got in the door. The irony was too much, which he must have recognized because he turned off the stereo. We sat at the kitchen table, neither of us able to make eye contact. For what seemed like an eternity, the only sounds in the apartment came from my lighter and the occasional car that drove past.
I couldn't take the silence, "I can't believe that just happened."
"Yeah. I was thinking the same thing," he chuckled. "I'd never been to that place, but the people in my department wanted to drink outside and that's what they came up with." He lit a cigarette, and exhaled a cloud of smoke that briefly obscured his face, "What were the chances?"
"I know."
"So. Was that him?"
"Yes."
"The one with you changed seats with?"
"Does it matter?"
"I guess not," he set the cigarette in the ashtray and got up to get a glass of water. "What's his name?"
"You don't seriously want to know that, do you?"
"I don't know. Maybe." He leaned against the counter, "You want a drink?"
"No. Thanks."

I lit another cigarette and we stayed where we were and didn't speak. I could faintly hear a TV coming from the apartment next door. An alley cat. People out in the street, laughing.
"It's Victor. His name is Victor."
"Victor. Well, that's good to know," he smiled and took a drink. "I hate that name."
"Are you sorry I told you?"
"No. I asked, didn't I?" He sat back down and put his arms behind his head, "Well, whichever one he was, he wasn't what I pictured."
"What did you picture?"
"I thought he'd look—more like me. I didn't think he'd look so much like a lacrosse player. So east coast-y. Like most of the guys who went to _______. The kind of guy who got away with everything. The kind of guy that made my life in high school kind of shitty."
"Yeah, well—"
"I want to know more about him," he crossed his arms and leaned back in the chair. "I want you to tell me what it is about him that's so goddamn great that you can't break up with him."

This conversation had been a long time in coming—I just didn't think it would be under these circumstances. I still felt slightly high and skittish, unsure of how much I should reveal, unsure of how much detail he wanted.
"Well, where to begin?"
"How about telling me why you're still with him? I mean, you're unhappy—that I know. But that's all I know."
"Things are complicated with Victor and me. There are some…issues," I took a deep breath.
"Like?"
"There is a drug problem. He has a drug problem." It was the first time I'd ever said it out loud. It felt liberating. "We both do drugs, but I think he's in bad shape."
Matthew looked down at the table and said quietly, "What kind of drugs are we talking about?"
"Cocaine, mostly. But all kinds."
Matthew looked startled, "How long has this been going on?"
"Two years—for me. Longer, for him. I'm not exactly sure." I put out my cigarette and rested my head on my hands, "In fact, I was incredibly high when you saw me at the restaurant."
Matthew stared at me, "Is that why you won't leave? Drugs?"
"No, but I worry about him. I worry about what would happen if I left. What he'd do." I immediately regretted my choice of words. "What I mean is, I worry about how he'd take it. Wait—this is coming out all wrong—"

Matthew looked like he wanted to break something and I had an idea of what he was thinking:
A few weeks before, Victor and I had gone out drinking and when we got home we fought about something stupid—I couldn't even remember what started it—and I got so pissed off that I shoved him as hard as I could. This was nothing unusual; Victor and I had loud, obnoxious arguments on a regular basis and I gave as good as I got—especially when I was drunk. I went to shove him again, but he grabbed my arms and held them down. We both walked away with injuries; he had a lump on his shin from where I'd kicked him, and I had greenish, blotchy bruises on my upper arms for days. Matthew asked me about them. I said it was nothing, but he kept bringing it up again and again. Victor, regardless of how fucked up things were, would never hurt me. However, I was certain that Matthew wouldn't believe that, no matter what I said.

"Would he do something to you if you left? Because if I find out that he ever laid a hand on you, I'll kill him." The calmness with which he said it, coupled with the tendons tightening in his neck as he said it, unnerved me a little.
"No. He hasn't. And he wouldn't. Ever. I don't want you to get the wrong idea, okay? He's not a bad person. Yes, he has his problems—"
Matthew laughed, "Problems? Not a bad person? Complicated? Iseult, do you even fucking hear what you're saying? You're telling me that he's a drug addict. I saw what he did to your arms. What the fuck is that?" He stood up and started talking louder, "I mean, come on, it's pretty clear that he doesn't give a fuck about you."
"That's not fair—"
"Well it's not that fucking difficult to see, is it?" He put his hands on the table and stared at me, "You and I have been together, what, for like, almost three months now, right?"
"And?"
He grabbed the cigarettes off the table and lit one, "And? And he cares about you so much that he has no clue what's going on right in front of his fucking face? He either doesn't care or he's too fucked up to notice. And neither of those things are what I'd call complicated. It's not complicated. It's fucked up."
"Look, I know how it sounds. I don't expect you to understand, but—"
"What's to understand? He doesn't even notice that you're spending less time with him? That you're messing around with someone else? He doesn't think anything is going on? Come on, Iseult! You're a smart girl, use your brain. He doesn't care."

I'd heard enough. I wanted to be alone, to think. Nothing he said was news to me. I was just amazed at how good I'd gotten at ignoring it. My head felt heavy and thick. "I have a final tomorrow." I walked to the other room and he followed me.
"You're leaving? Now?"
"That's what it looks like, right?"
"But I want to talk about this," he reached for my hand. "It's really messing with me. I really care about you."
"Really? Well, you shouldn't. I mean, come on, Matthew! I never asked to be rescued. This was only supposed to be about sex, remember? Because that's all it ever was about for me. And we haven't even had sex, so what is the point here, huh? Tell me. And if you got your heart broken somewhere along the way, that's your own fucking fault."
He looked like he'd been punched in the stomach. "Is that really how you feel?"
"Yeah. That's how I feel." It absolutely wasn't. I felt like an asshole for saying it, but I needed to get out of there. I felt out of control. My head started to pound. "Will you move? Please?" Matthew stepped aside and I opened the door.

As soon as I hit the sidewalk, I started to sob.

Elvis Costello's "Alison"
From the album, My Aim Is True
Purchased at Circuit City, Columbus surburbs

Singles Going Steady: Luscious Jackson's "Let Yourself Get Down"

Matthew and I had been seeing each other for a little over two months. Two months since we first made out, two months of lies and omissions, two months of expert planning, two months of nocturnal mayhem. Who knew so much trouble could be found between midnight and four in the morning? Four tiny hours meant the difference between respectful and reprobate.

There were indications, unfortunately, that Matthew was developing feelings counter to our agreed-upon edicts. For one thing, goodbyes started to last longer. I would be ready to go, and he'd always, always try to get me to stay "just for a little while—just to talk." He would say things like, "Every time you leave, I think I'm never going to see you again." Or, "I hate thinking about what happens to you each time you walk out that door." He was somewhat anxious, of late. He seemed exhausted, he got distracted easily. We'd be making out and he'd pull back, apologizing, something about having a lot on his mind. I attributed this change in behavior to his thesis: Many nights after I'd leave, he'd stay up to write or revise. His apartment had become a forest of reference books and papers.

I still liked him, no doubt about that, but this wasn't a relationship and it was starting to feel like one. What we had was an arrangement. Off the books. Under the table. It had been a good setup for us both, so I thought; I didn't want it to go off the rails because of expectations that could never be realized.

Spring break was around the corner. Victor and I had thought about taking a trip, but he was done with finals first and decided he'd go to ______ to see some friends, instead. I was going to stick around campus for a few days, then meet up with Victor in ______ later.

"Wait—so this means you're going to be here—alone?" Matthew smiled. "That's pretty great."
"Yeah," I stretched out on the carpet, "so we should…take advantage."
"Like, you can spend the night, finally?"
"Yeah. Sure..."

But what I really meant by "take advantage" was, "We should have sex, now." Somewhere in the last few weeks, as it related to that, the atmosphere had grown cloudy. Several times during an evening, we found ourselves in that situation where you either have to stop or not stop. In the beginning of our relationship, I found it sexy, that wanton longing at the end of the night. Now I just found it frustrating.

"So, I have a question," I rested my head on his legs.
"Sure. Anything."
"Are you sleeping with anyone else?"
He laughed, "Wow—that was not what I was expecting."
"Well, are you?"
He shook his head, "No. Why?"
"Well, before we have sex—I want to know if you're—if you've been, you know, tested."
He ran his fingers through my hair, "Listen, I don't know if you think I'm some sort of international playboy, or whatever—"
"I don't. But you seem pretty at home with all this…the physical stuff. And you've had a lot of girlfriends, right?"
"Okay…" he paused and sat back, "yes, I have had a decent number of…relationships. But let me assure you, I haven't engaged in anything…risky, if that's what you're asking."
"So, have you ever been tested?"
"Yes. No problems."
"Good. I haven't had one since I've been here, but I'm only sleeping with one–"
He put up his hand, "Stop. I don't want to know."
"What? It's important to talk about it, don't you think?"
"Yeah, but—it's just that—I don't want to think of you being with someone else."
"Okay…so how do you want to think of me?"
He laughed, "What I mean is that when you're here…what am I trying to say? Your life outside of here, that part—I don't want to know anything about it."
"Fair enough."
He got up and went to the kitchen, "Hey."
"Yeah?"
"When this is all over, will you write me at school and tell me why this happened?"

*****
Victor's last night in town, we made plans to go to Estrada for margaritas. I was getting dressed, listening to Luscious Jackson's "Let Yourself Get Down." They were coming in a few weeks to Stache's and I bought tickets the minute they went on sale. I was dancing around my room, when I heard someone pounding on the door.
"Iseult? Are you home?" It was Victor. He'd just called me, so he knew I was. I threw on my shirt and went down to let him in. He was with Def, and they looked looped and out of breath.
"What's going on? What's wrong?"
"Nothing," Victor started looking around the apartment. "Is anyone else home?"
"No. Skinny Marie's at work. Why?"
"Let's go upstairs."
The three of us trudged up to my room and Victor said, "Lock the door."
"What's going on? Are you in trouble or something?"
Def laughed and loosened his tie, "I hope not."
I locked the door and sat on the bed. Def was tapping his foot and Victor was rolling up his sleeves.
"Okay," Victor panted, "do you swear not to tell anyone?"
"Yeah. Of course—"
He grabbed my arm, "I'm serious. Not anyone. Not Skinny Marie or Buddha or anyone."
"Okay, okay," I pulled my arm back. The outline of his hand was visible on my skin.
Def and Victor looked at each other nervously.
"You go," Victor said to him.
"Well, we were at City Center after work, right?" Def took off his jacket and threw it on the floor, "And we went to the ATM to get cash…" He trailed off and looked at Victor.
Victor jumped in, "And there were these teenage girls there, just fucking around, taking forever." He started pacing, "And they weren't paying attention to what they were doing. They really should have been more careful, you know?"
I was starting to get worried, "And?"
"They walked away! They were idiots," he laughed and looked at Def.
"Yeah. Definitely." The color had drained from Def's cheeks and his forehead was glistening with sweat. He wiped it with his sleeve.
Victor sat next to me, "One of them left her card in the machine. She just walked away in the middle of a transaction—she didn't even notice! So we—"
"Just to see," Def chimed in.
"Yes—just to see what would happen. I typed in $500. Honestly, I never thought it would work. I mean, what kind of teenager has that kind of money?" He got up, went to the window and looked around.

I felt like I was watching this on TV—it didn't seem possible that it was unfolding in my room. "Did you—did you take the money?"
"Well, what did you expect us to do? I mean, the girl was long gone. It wasn't like we could chase after her," Victor looked slightly crazed.
My eyes were bugging out, "Did you even try to look for her?"
"I'm telling you—they were nowhere."
I already had an idea, but asked anyway, "What did you do with it?"
Def opened his backpack and took out a paper bag. He opened it and took out a baggie. Inside there was a golf-ball-sized chunk of cocaine. It was pure white and just the sight of it made my pulse race.
"Oh my God. Are you fucking kidding me?"
Victor looked dazed when he stared at it, "It's insane, right? We went straight to Mackey's and gave him all the money. Neither of us wanted to keep it. It didn't seem right."
"So, what, it seemed more right to do this? What the fuck?"
Def looked uncomfortable, "Iseult, we didn't—"
Victor said to him, "Wait." He looked at me, "Listen, I know it was stupid, but we didn't mean for it to happen, okay? We didn't know what else to do. What, was I supposed to just leave the money there? It was an accident."
I just stared at them. I couldn't think of anything else to do.

Def reached into his bag, got out a Swiss Army Knife and went to work chopping it out.
"You want to try it?" He cut out a small line using his credit card, "It's really clean, so go slow. We've already done some." He handed me the card, "Start with this."
I rubbed the dust from the card on my gums and they were numb instantly. He wasn't kidding—it was potent. I did the line and immediately, the high I felt was as powerful as it was the very first time I tried it. I felt sexy and disgusted, but after a few more lines, I'd all but forgotten where it came from. This was a new low.

The three of us went to Estrada. It had a patio, which was fortunate, because I was very hot and was looking forward to sitting outside with a drink. While we waited for a table, we stood at the bar and drank and talked total bullshit, nonstop, at top volume. I knew people were staring at us, but I was so zooted, I didn't care. When we got our table, I saw out of the corner of my eye a group of people who I recognized from the _____ department. A cold sweat trickled down my lower back—I had a feeling that one of those people was Matthew. I tried to not look over, but I knew I was right, and I got seated facing right in his direction. When he saw me, a series of looks flashed across his face: first disbelief, then amusement, then confusion, and finally, disappointment.
I jumped up, "Victor, trade places with me."
"Why?"
"Just—please. Come on."
"There someone over there you don't like or something?" He craned his neck around and looked at Matthew's table.
I was trying not to freak out, which was difficult because my brain was on hyper-speed along with my heart, the outline of which was probably visible to anyone looking at my chest.
"No," I lied. "It's just—I have a class with one of them and he's—he gives me the creeps." As soon as the words left my mouth I was sorry because both he and Def stared at the table.
"Which one?" Def asked.
"Do you want me to say something to this guy?" Victor started to get up.
"No. And stop staring," I hissed. "Just change seats with me."
The waiter came over and said, "Is everything okay?"
I blurted, "Yes, we were just going to switch seats."
Victor gave me a look that said, "Are you crazy?" but he got up.

I could feel Matthew's eyes on me and thought I was going to have a panic attack.
"You guys, I'll be right back," I got up and went to the restroom, splashed some water on my face and tried to calm down. I was not in the mood to be there anymore. I was not in the mood to be high. Often, I'd wished I could figure some way to turn off the jittery, sick feeling of being this geeked out. Pills usually worked. So did a joint or more drinks. I didn't want any of those things—I wanted to talk to Matthew. I drank some water from the faucet and walked back outside.
"Hey," Def said, "your freak-show table just left."
Victor laughed and poured himself another drink. "That one guy looked like a stalker. What class do you have with him?"
"Yeah, man. What the hell was that about?" Def passed him his cup.
"I don't know. He's nobody," I felt like crying.
Victor leaned over and kissed me, "If you wanted me to talk to that dickhead, I would have. You know that."

Luscious Jackson's "Let Yourself Get Down"
From the EP, In Search of Manny

Singles Going Steady: Atlantic Starr's "Secret Lovers"

Buddha and Kona were deep into their second round by the time I got to the bar. Thursday was our drinking night, and after I started seeing Matthew I'd flaked out on them a few times. I was supposed to have been there an hour earlier, but fell asleep on the floor in my room, right in the middle of a pile of books and papers. When I woke up, there was an indent in the shape of a paperclip on my forehead.
"Dude!" Buddha yelled when he saw me. "Over here."
"Hey kids," I took off my jacket and hung it behind me on my chair. "Sorry I'm late."
"Yeah—what took you so long? You fall asleep or something?" Kona flipped up the top of his Zippo and lit my cigarette.
I inhaled, "Actually, yes, that's exactly what I did. I'm pretty beat, man," I yawned. Which was true: I'd been up that morning at Matthew's until three—the night before that, same thing.
Buddha took a sip of his signature drink—a Singapore Sling—and peered at me, "What's up with you, man? You look like you've been through the ringer."
"Yeah," Kona grinned, "you do look kinda rough."
I made a mental note to start wearing under-eye concealer more often. "Thanks, friends," I laughed. "It's midterms. Just a lot of studying, working, papers." This wasn't entirely untrue, as I was doing those things—in between everything else. I tapped my cigarette into an empty bottle, "Maybe you jokers don't care about that shit, but I do."
"Here," Kona slid a Black Label in my direction. He lit a cigarette and turned to Buddha, "Maybe she's got a secret life we don't know about."
"Or maybe she's got a secret lover," Buddha pronounced it "lov-ah."
I felt my face heat up, "Yeah, that's it. Busted."
Buddha sang, "Secret lovers, yeah, that's what we are. Trying so hard to hide the way we feel," he put his hand on my shoulder and sang louder, "Cause we something, something, something. But we can't let go—"
"Oh, hell no, man," Kona laughed, "Atlantic Starr?"
"You know it," Buddha downed his drink, "and you love it."
"And now it's going to be in my head all fucking night," I drank my beer and smiled to myself. "Anyway," I quickly steered away from that subject, "Where's Beau?"
Buddha looked at his watch, "He'll be here. Later. He has some…thing with someone? At some place? I don't remember the details. But he's coming." He stood up, "Another round?" We nodded and he went to the bar.
"So," Kona lit another cigarette, "Have you seen the latest CMJ? The CD is pretty good…"

*****
"Iseult? Hello? Earth to Iseult, come in Iseult…"
"What?" My arm fell asleep and I was having trouble moving it.
"I said, 'Do you want anything from the kitchen?' "
It took me a moment to remember where I was, "Wait—Do I what?"
Skinny Marie looked at me, confused, "The kitchen? Do you want anything from it?"
We had been watching a movie and I'd nodded off. "Oh," I sat up, "No, I'm cool."
"Are you feeling okay?" She walked into the kitchen, "I hope you're not getting that thing that everyone has. You want some Emergen-C?"
"Oh, thanks, but no. I'm just tired, I guess." I was still getting eight hours of sleep—just not in a row. This double life was staring to catch up with me.
Skinny Marie came back out with two popsicles, "I know you love the cherry ones. Here."
"Thanks," I threw the wrapper on the coffee table. The fake cherry flavor was fabulous.
"Sure," she started flipping channels. "Hey—total non sequitur, I know, but is everything okay with you and Victor?"
"Yeah. Why?"
"Well," she clicked off the TV and raised her eyebrow at me, "he hasn't been around much, lately."
I knew where she was going with this and I felt terrible about it. "Yeah, well, his internship takes up a lot of his time..."
She ate the top off her popsicle, "Okay, I'll cut the bullshit. Who's this Matthew guy that's been calling you lately? I want some scoop."
I hated lying to her—I mean, I'd been borrowing her car so I could drive to Matthew's when I'm sure she thought I was driving to Victor's. She was one of my best friends on the whole planet and lying to her only served to further remind me of just how deceitful the whole situation truly was.
"He's just a friend. I told you about him, didn't I? We both work at _______?"
Her eyes widened slightly. She wasn't stupid, and I felt like a supreme asshole for being cagey. "Uh-huh. Okay, well, when you're ready to tell me more about your friend, I'm here..."

*****
"Hey, Professor. Sorry I'm late," I hurried into his office and tossed my bag on the floor.
Professor Avery looked amused, "Well, hello, there, Hurricane Iseult. You're not late. You're early."
"I am?" I looked at the Three Stooges wall clock above the desk; sure enough, I was an hour early—then I realized: I'd set Matthew's alarm clock wrong. I was concerned that lately I'd been a little late one too many times for everything, so I'd started erring on the side of extreme punctuality. This, however, bordered on pathological. "Oh wow. I didn't even realize."
"Well you're lucky that this happens to be one of those rare days that I got to campus early. Come on," he waved me over, "let's get some coffee."

We walked down to the lounge and he poured us each a cup. Nobody had cleaned the coffeemaker in years, and the taste proved it.
"Sometimes, there's just not enough sugar in the world, you know?" He took a drink and made a face, "Almost…" He added more, "Better."
"Why does it taste always like meat?"
He laughed, "It does taste a lot like that. Maybe I'll leave a note on there that says, 'Clean Me.' Or, "Please Put Me Out Of My Misery.' "
We sat in the two beat-up armchairs on the other side of the coffeemaker. "These could use some assistance, too," he said trying to get comfortable. "There's a spring poking me in a very awkward place. Good Lord," he scooted forward. "So, tell me—how's this quarter going?"
I wrapped my hands around my mug, "It's good. Not too hard. Midterms shouldn't be a problem."
"Good, that's good," he took a drink, "well if you need some time off to study, let me know."
"No, I'm fine," I gulped the beef-jerky-flavored liquid. "Besides—I could use the money."
"Are you sure? I'm worried that I've been giving you too many hours. Might be good to take a few days off." He leaned over and lowered his voice, "And I'll still sign your time card. No one will be the wiser, yes?"
God, Iseult, you suck, I thought. Ostensibly, I was working hard and studying hard; thus, my zombie-like appearance and near-constant yawning. Everyone was so concerned about me that they were willing to cut me tons of slack.
"No, seriously," I stared into my cup, "it's not a problem."
"Well, it's that time of year, I suppose," he leaned back gingerly in the chair. "Seems like all the students I've run into lately are dog-tired. Ran into Matthew K_____ the other day, and he looked like he and sleep had been estranged for quite a while…"

My pulse pounded in my ears at the mention of his name, and the anxiety-fatigue combo deal I was enjoying made my paranoia visceral. I started to panic: Oh fuck. Buddha, Kona, Skinny Marie—now Avery? They all suspect something. And if they suspect something, what the hell must Victor be thinking? But we've been careful. We've been nothing but discreet, right? I mean, there was that one time I was on the phone with him when Victor came over—did he give me a weird look when I got off? But I played it off really well, didn't I? Shit, I can't remember. And the other night—I wonder what Victor meant when he asked if I wanted to be with other guys? Was he trying to get me to own up to something? Some kind of reverse psychology? Fucking hell. I can't remember anything right now.

Professor Avery was still talking, "When I haven't taught for a while, I forget what it's like for you people. So much to balance—life, work, friends," he scooted forward, "I do not envy you, no ma'am, I do not. Well," he sighed, then patted me on the knee and stood up, "as much as I'd like to let the day idle by with coffee and conversation, I do need to earn my keep—"
"Um," I felt squirrelly and had a sudden urge to run out of the building. "Maybe it would be okay if I took today off?"
He nodded, "Absolutely. Take a walk. Read. Have some fun. Here," he reached for my cup, which he had to pry out of my slightly clenched hands, and tossed it in the trash. "Burning the candle at both ends can be tricky business. And I know from experience. When I was an undergrad…"

*****
"So yeah, that's four people. Four people who, in the course of a week, have all asked what in the hell is going on with me. I think they know something's up," I pulled Matthew's shirt over his head.
"It just sounds like they care. It doesn't sound sinister," he unzipped my jeans.
I leaned back so he could get them off easier, "But Avery? I mean, he mentioned you by name."
He rolled on top of me, "Coincidence. Don't read into it," and kissed me.
"No, you weren't there. Hey—move to your left," I undid his belt. "It wasn't what he said, but how he said it. Then something about 'burning the candle at both ends is tricky.' Like he was giving me some kind of warning. Wait—couldn't you get in major trouble for fooling around with a student?"
He laughed, "Well, yeah. But you're not a student of mine," he reached under my back and unhooked my bra, "And anyway, don't you think you're being just a tiny bit paranoid? Nobody knows anything about anything..."

Atlantic Starr, "Secret Lovers," from the album As the Band Turns
Originally released sometime in 1986!

Soundtrack of Our Lives: Frank Sinatra, Sinatra Reprise

Victor looked at his watch for the tenth time in the last five minutes and fiddled with his cufflinks.
"Iseult, come on. Seriously, what is taking so long?"
"Hold on, okay? I can't find the earrings I want to wear."
"Could you just pick a pair, please?" I could hear him sniffing. "It doesn't matter, does it?"
"Relax. I'm almost ready." I came out of the bedroom and stood in front of him, "Look okay?"
"Yes," he kissed me, "just like a future senator's wife should look—"
"Oh yeah," I rolled my eyes, "just like that."
"No, really, you look great, the earrings look great, and what would be really great? Is if you'd hurry up and do those lines over there so we can get out of here."
I walked over to the coffee table and bent over it, rubbed some of the coke on my gums, then inhaled three large lines. "Yuck," I swallowed and could feel the cocaine draining down the back of my throat, "it tastes awful."
"Yeah," Victor put on his tux jacket, "but it was all Mackey had. Said he'd get something better next week."
"Good, because this is shit," my eyes were running, "Is my mascara smudged?"
"No," he handed me my bag, "it's just fine. Let's go."

We were going to a big-deal democratic national committee fundraiser at the house of _____ _____. This was the first event that Victor had taken me to since he got his internship. Politics wasn't my thing, but I knew this particular event was important to him: The guest of honor was Patrick Kennedy. And Victor had always had a thing for the Kennedy family. I'd found a life-size cardboard cutout of JFK, and he kept it on display in the hallway.

I felt like a celebrity when we got to the party; there were a lot of press people there, local TV crews. We walked in and _____ _____ immediately came over to greet us. "There he is," he said, "my star campaigner."
"Thanks, sir," they shook hands. "____ _____, this is Iseult W____, my girlfriend."
"It's so nice to meet you," we shook hands. It kind of hurt.
"You, too, Ms. W____. Now you've met the man responsible for taking such huge quantities of Victor's time. I hope you can forgive me. But I have to say," he clapped Victor on the shoulder, in that guy sort of way, "I don't know what this campaign would do without his energy and enthusiasm."
"Well, sir, thank you very much," Victor beamed.
"It's just the honest truth," more shoulder clapping. "If you don't mind, I need to borrow him for just a few more minutes," he held motioned toward the next room. "May I direct you to the bar? There is absolutely no shortage of drinks, I assure you. Victor, why don't you get Ms. W____ and yourself something and meet me in the foyer with the other interns." He shook my hand again, "It was a pleasure. I hope to see you again soon."
"Yes, thanks. Me, too."
Victor handed me a glass of champagne, "Isn't he great?"
"Yeah, I guess so—"
Victor squinted at me, "Hey, this is the guy who could get me a real fucking job."
"Yes. I know." Although I didn't know why he'd want to work with these people. Everything was so plastic, so surface-y, with them. Everything _____ _____ said sounded like he'd said it a hundred times before.
He started sniffing, "Do you have any Kleenex?"
"Here," I handed him the pack from my bag. He turned around and blew his nose and I could see there was blood on the tissue. "Victor you're—"
"Holy shit," he pulled me into a corner and wiped his nose again. "Give me your mirror." Fortunately, it didn't look like a full-on nosebleed. "Here," he handed me the bullet, "you keep this. I'll take the mirror. I have to go."

I watched him walk into the crowd, making his way toward the foyer, waving at the people who called his name, discreetly rubbing underneath his nose. I finished my champagne, "Is there anywhere I can smoke?" I asked the bartender.
"Sure. Go down this hall, to your left. You can go out on the veranda."
"Thanks."
There was a motley crew already out there, many of them smoking, most of them looking just as bored as I felt. A Southern Gentleman type came over to me and asked if I needed a light. We ended up drinking sea breezes and talking about horse racing. He was a judge, had gone to school with _____ _____, so he had some funny stories to share about him and a few of the other politicos in attendance—I could have talked to him all night. His wife came and dragged him away, unfortunately, but not before giving me a series of dirty looks that must have been hard for her taught, tight, plastic-surgery-stretched face to make.

I went inside to find a bathroom, and took a few hits from the bullet, put on more lipstick and wandered back toward the bar where I ran into a very excited-looking Victor.
"Hey! I've been looking all over for you. Where have you been?"
"Veranda," I pulled up the straps on my dress. "How's your nose?"
"Good," he rubbed it and looked at the back of his hand. "Let's go into the ballroom. Patrick is getting ready to make a speech."

The speech, thankfully, was short and sweet, reminding us of how important it was, in general, to exercise our right to vote, and how important it was, in particular, to vote for _____ ____ and his cronies. But what I found more interesting was something the southern judge mentioned when we were out on the veranda: Patrick Kennedy's cousin, John Jr., was rumored to be engaged to one Carolyn Bessette, a publicist for Calvin Klein. A video of the two of them arguing in Central Park had been making the rounds on tabloid TV for weeks, and in the video, it looked like he pulled a ring off of her left ring finger. Someone asked Patrick Kennedy about it; he demurred in a way that made it seem like it might not be just idle gossip. The room, of course, started buzzing. After that, the rest of the speeches were a total letdown. I was trying to stifle a yawn.
"Hey," Victor whispered and squeezed my hand, "Just a little longer, okay?"
Def saw us and came over, "Hey Victor. Iseult, you're looking lovely."
"Thanks. You look great, too," I gave him a kiss on the cheek.
"Thank you, thank you. So listen, man, I just heard that we can take off whenever we want. Just be down at the Statehouse tomorrow at 7:30."
"Cool. Thanks, man," he and Def did some complicated handshake thing. Then he put his arm around my shoulder, "Let's get out of here."

I took off my shoes as soon as we got in the car and when we pulled up to Victor's apartment, he ran around to my door and threw me over his shoulder, carried me up the stairs. He was in such a good mood: Apparently, _____ _____ had said a lot of glowing things about him to some important people.
"So even if he loses in November, I still have some other contacts if I want to go to D.C." Victor pulled a bottle of champagne out of the fridge, "How would you feel about living in D.C.?"
"I don't know," I pulled my right strap back up, "I mean, I think it's nice. Lots of good museums—"
"Yeah, but," he handed me a glass, "how would you feel about living there with me?" He got up and put a CD in—Sinatra Reprise. He liked to listen to Frank Sinatra when he felt celebratory. Then he went to the bookcase and took out the rest of the shitty coke out of the fake dictionary, "You know, townhouse, nice car, white picket fence, etcetera?"
I was at a loss. He'd talked before about wanting to get married, but I never let myself think about those old conversations, given how things were going now, "Well, that's—wow—"
"Wait—you don't have to say anything. Let me talk," he was cutting out lines on the Sinatra CD case. He slid it toward me and handed me a rolled up twenty, "I just can't imagine not being with you down the road." I inhaled a thick line and my nose started to burn. "I mean, I know that you probably want to sow some oats, or whatever, and maybe eventually we'll need to take some time apart for you to do that. I wouldn't want to marry you and have you always wonder what it would have been like to be with other guys," he took the bill and inhaled a line. "Well, only if you want to, that is," he took off his tie and undid his cufflinks. "Do you?"
I almost choked on my champagne, sputtering, "What?"
"Never mind. Whatever—it'll all work out," he slid the straps off my shoulders. "I've really missed you," and kissed my collarbone. It felt so familiar and normal—a memory of one of our first dates flashed into my head:

Victor had been working all summer at the local golf course, and right before he left for Ohio State, he said he wanted to do something special. We went to dinner, drank a lot of bad Chianti, and ended up back at the golf course. He'd learned how not to set off the alarm system, so we made our way to the ninth hole where, earlier in the day, he'd hidden a bottle of Cold Duck in a bucket that he put in the stream near the hole. He'd also brought along a blanket, a tiny tape deck and an old, tinny-sounding Frank Sinatra tape. We had plastic champagne flutes, but eventually tossed them aside and drank straight from the bottle. We made out on the green, walked through the sand traps, talked about the future, about how he wanted to be a politician and I wanted to be a writer. We stayed out there until the sprinklers went off in the morning.

It was one of my favorite memories of us. I was wearing a strappy dress that night, too, and the way everything felt at the moment felt exactly like it did back then.
"I miss you, too," I reached for his shoulders and pulled him on top of me.
"Wait," he sat back and moved toward the coffee table. "Let's do a few more, first, okay? I feel like celebrating."

*****
Victor fell asleep right after we had sex, but I couldn't. I pulled on his t-shirt and went out to the living room to smoke. Is it possible, I thought, as I stared at the photos of us on the bookshelf, to be in mourning for something that isn't dead?

Frank Sinatra, Sinatra Reprise
Never purchased.

Soundtrack of Our Lives: New Order, Movement

"Hey."
"Hmmm?"
"Hate to ruin the moment, here, but…"
"What time is it?"
Matthew leaned over and looked at the clock, "Close to 4:30."
"Jesus," I rolled over and squinted up at him. "How long have we been asleep?"
He rolled toward me and brushed the hair from my eyes, "Not long. An hour, something like that."
I yawned, "Well, if I get home now, I can sleep for a few hours before I go to work."
"I wish you would stay."
"Yeah, well..."
He put on his glasses, "I know." He stood up and started getting dressed, "Let me go to the bathroom and then I'll walk you down."

For the next few weeks, this is how it went:
The weekends, those were still with Victor. But Sunday through Thursday, on the days I saw Matthew, I'd go to work then class, come home, have dinner with Victor or with friends, study for a few hours, and take a nap. Then around 11 or midnight—depending on when he was done working or writing his thesis or meeting with his study groups—I'd drive over to Matthew's, stay until three, sometimes four, then drive back to my apartment. He always wanted me to stay over; it definitely would have been easier for both of us, but I thought that spending the night made it too real. And in the not-quite-night, but not-quite-morning time during which these events took place, I welcomed the unreality.

Fatigue notwithstanding, this was working out much better than I could have hoped. Victor had gotten an internship at the ______ that he'd been gunning for. He was working on _____ _____'s reelection campaign, which meant his spare time, already tight with school and work, was spent canvassing, cold-calling, and attending a lot of fundraisers, drastically reducing the amount of time we spent together. Most nights, he didn't get home before midnight. When Victor would apologize for having to cancel plans at the last minute, I played the part of The Understanding Girlfriend to the hilt. "No problem," I'd assure him, "I'll find something to do." This, coupled with what was turning out to be an incredibly easy quarter for me, made what could otherwise have been a logistical nightmare a relatively easy situation.

Matthew and I hadn't yet had sex. I definitely wanted to, though, and I knew it would happen eventually, but I needed some time, which surprised me because I thought I would just jump right in. Matthew never made a big deal out of it. He was an absolute gentleman in the sack. Always asking if this was okay, if that was okay, saying that he just wanted me to be absolutely okay with what was happening. It wasn't oversensitive or corny, though it sometimes verged on clinical. I wanted to be all, "Less talking, more doing," but I appreciated his concern.

We both had a completely professional, businesslike attitude toward what was happening. If we saw each other at work, we didn't act more familiar than we were supposed to. If we saw each other on campus, we wouldn't say anything beyond "hello." When I went to his place, sometimes we'd talk for a while. Sometimes I'd have him help me with a paper or walk me through a difficult analysis. Sometimes he'd ask my opinion on something he wrote or have me quiz him on _____ _____. Sometimes we went straight into fooling around. Regardless of how it started, it always ended up that way.

*****

"Hey—I know we're not supposed to talk details, but can I ask you something?" It had been raining for a week straight and we were in bed having cigarettes, listening to the rain beat against the roof, the leak in his window causing an occasional drop to fall on my arm. I scooted away from it.
"Of course. Shoot."
"Have you, you know, done this before?"
He laughed, "No. This is new territory."
I tapped my cigarette into the green glass ashtray at the end of the bed, "So you've never cheated on anyone before?"
"Well, I guess that depends on your definition of cheating," he exhaled, "If making out with someone else is considered cheating—"
"I think making out is definitely cheating."
"Then yes. Have you? Before, I mean…"
"No. I haven't been in that many relationships. How about you?"
He pulled the sheet up to his waist and sat back, "Let me think—"
"You have to think about it?"
"Well, yeah. Most of them didn't last that long. I mean, do you consider seeing someone for a few months a relationship?"
I rested my head on his legs, "I guess so. Yeah,"
"Then," he stubbed out his cigarette and kissed my forehead, "I've had 13 maybe 15 relationships."
"Were you in love with any of them?" I glanced up and he looked slightly absent, staring out the window.
He exhaled, "Not all, no."
"Have you ever been in love?"
He looked down then out the window, "I can be totally myopic, sometimes. In high school and college I was focused on doing well, and I think it's fair to say that I was not a good boyfriend. I knew I eventually wanted to get into a PhD program. I didn't want to get in a serious relationship until I figured out where I was going to end up for that. So when things started getting serious with someone, I...ended it."
"So you've never had a long relationship?"
"What's long?"
"More than—I don't know…more than a year?"
"One. It lasted two years. After college, I took a year off to travel around with some friends. I met this someone on the trip—she was a friend of a friend—and we ended up spending the last part of it together. Turned out that she was also entering the ______ program here, so we kept seeing each other. She was pretty unhappy though, and after our first year, she decided to drop out of the program. Moved out west. It was rough—she was the first girlfriend I ever lived with. She was…she had some things to work out."
"Did you love her?"
He nodded, "I think so."
I rolled over onto my side, "You think so?"
He looked pained, "Yeah. I mean, I think it was love. When we broke up, it was really fucking hard. But love—it's not something I analyzed, you know?"
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."
"You didn't," he slid down next to me, "I just didn't think you wanted to know anything personal."

And at first, I didn't--I thought of my time with Matthew as an arrangement or a service--but the more time I spent with him, the more I wanted to know.

*****

"Hey," Matthew and I kissed hello. "What is this?" The CD that was playing was one I hadn't heard, though it sounded a lot like Joy Division.
He was in the kitchen hunting for a corkscrew, "Hold on..." He came out with a bottle of Concha y Toro I had Skinny Marie buy for me the night before because I couldn't find my fake ID. I took off my coat and shoes, put them by the door. He handed me a glass and sat down, "Say that again?"
"What's the CD?"
"It's New Order. Movement. Not my favorite New Order album, but sometimes I get in the mood to hear it."
"It's kind of dark," the acidy taste of the cheap wine made my mouth water.
"Yeah, I think it's the first one they did after Ian Curtis died. Want me to change it?"
"No. I like it."
"It reminds me a lot of college. I think I told you that I was a DJ?" He lit a cigarette for each of us, "And this other guy, ____ ____, and I had a show that was like, the graveyard shift. But that was cool because it meant we could play anything we wanted, since nobody was listening. Anyway, every night for six months straight, we played nothing but New Order and Elvis Costello. We would have kept it up, but we got moved to a better time slot," he blew smoke over his shoulder. "So yeah, when I hear some of those albums, it's like taking a trip in the way-back machine."
"What were you like in college?"
He chuckled, "Oh man. Well, I studied a lot. And drank. A lot. That's pretty much it."
"Come on," I ashed into the green ashtray. "You've got to give me more than that."
"Seriously. That's it," he took a drink. "Nothing exciting or controversial."
"Alright, then, tell me about the tattoo. Is it the Black Flag logo?"
He smiled, "Yes, yes it is. Someone gave me a copy of Damaged when I was a freshman and that was all I listened to that year. And from there, I got into Minor Threat, the Dead Kennedys—the whole deal. I had this group of friends who were as punk as you can get at ______ ______ and we all decided, after a night of heavy, heavy drinking, to get tattoos." He inhaled, "Mine was one of the good ones."
"It's not bad. It's actually kind of cool."
"Well, thanks," he laughed.
"Do your parents know? Have they seen it?"
"My mom did. She lost it. Wouldn't talk to me for months."
"Really? Why?"
"Something about 'ruining the perfect skin God gave me.' She's…my mom is, how can I put this? Not all there."
"Oh, she's…sick?"
He nodded, "No formal diagnosis. She says it's her nerves. 'Nothing that prayer can't help.' "
"Wow," I inhaled, "so she's pretty religious."
"Very. My parents both go to mass on Sundays and she goes during the week, too. She doesn't work. I think she's lonely. I don't think she has any friends. Just God. And my dad," he smiled wanly.
I refilled our glasses, "Are you religious?"
"Man, you've got a lot of questions tonight," he took a long drink. "How come?"
"I don't know," I swirled the wine around in my glass, "I guess I do want some details."
"Did you forget the rules? You made them, remember? When do I get to grill you?"
"Next time. Promise," I leaned over and kissed him, "Come on, please?"
"Okay," He put out his cigarette and sighed, folded his hands, "I was. But not anymore."
"Can I ask why?"
He stared down at his hands and then back at me, a troubled look passed briefly across his face, "I just…I just realized that prayers don't work. God's not listening. You have to take care of yourself."

I wanted to ask more but sensed that this was a good time to end the sharing portion of the evening.
"This wine is terrible," I finished my glass.
"Yeah," he took another drink, "but it works."
I walked around to his chair and sat in his lap, facing him, "I won't ask any more questions tonight. You have my word."
He looked relieved. He wrapped his arms around my waist and stood up and carried me over to the floor, "I'm glad."

New Order, Movement
Eventually purchased at Best Buy
Columbus, Ohio suburbs, 2000

Soundtrack of Our Lives: Tricky, Maxinquaye

Unlike most conversations I had in my head when I was stoned, this one, I actually remembered. I spent the better part of the week thinking about my options:

1. Break up with Victor.
2. Take some "time apart" from Victor.
3. Ride it out while Victor sorts out his shit.
4. Have an affair with Matthew.

Options one and two were basically the same. I wasn't ready to end the relationship, but I'd never known any couple that took time apart and didn't break up shortly thereafter. Option three—it felt like I'd been doing that forever. Victor kept saying, "As soon as I get through this quarter, things will get better." "As soon as exams are over, things will get better." "As soon as I graduate, things will get better." I'd been waiting for things to get better for a hella long time. I'd long since stopped trying to talk to him about it because every time I did, he would get angry, say that he was already under a lot of pressure and why couldn't this wait? True, I couldn't imagine how stressful it must have felt to be getting ready to graduate and have no idea what the future would be, but even seemingly benign questions like, "Are you hungry?" had the potential to make him rage. From where I sat, option four seemed like the best one. I had a million excuses to justify my choice, none of which were actually valid. I just felt stuck. More than a little lonely. And selfish.

Matthew agreed to see me that night.
"Come over around…11?"
"Okay. See you then."

He came to the door with wet hair, shirtless, and a towel around his neck.
"Oh hey! I'm sorry—I just got out of the shower. I was running late tonight. Come in. Make yourself at home," he reached for my hand and pulled me inside.
I couldn't take my focus off his torso. It seemed so intimate to be seeing him like this and I felt momentarily rattled. He was lean, but not scraggy. A pair of well-worn khaki Dickies sat low on his waist; green boxers. And he had that thing where his hips and waist were defined—like a statue. He certainly didn't look like most of the skinny and pale ______ majors I knew.
"Hold on," he walked into the bathroom and I could see that he had a tattoo on his back, near the upper right shoulder that looked like the Black Flag logo. I made a mental note to ask him about it later. "I played basketball earlier and I didn't get a chance to shower until now."
"I never pictured you as the basketball-playing type."
"Why not?"
"I don't know. You look like you read a lot."
"Well I do that, too. But I also play basketball a few times a week with some of the other graduate students."
"Are you any good?"
"I'm tall. That helps." He came out of the bathroom with a blue t-shirt on. I noticed it was on inside out. "Want a beer?" I nodded, he walked into the kitchen, came back and handed me a Rolling Rock and we sat on the floor. "How are you?"
"I'm good," I had that feeling again of not knowing what to do with my hands. I unbuckled and re-buckled the strap on my watch.
"It's good to see you."
"It's not weird?"
"It's not weird. To be honest, I wasn't sure if you'd call again."
"Why not?"
"I just really didn't think you would. But you did and you're here. And I'm glad."
"Right, well…" I took a long drink.
"Want to pick something to listen to?"
"No, you can."
"Do you like Tricky? I have Maxinquaye."
"I love that album. 'Pumpkin' is one of my favorite songs on there."
"I think mine is the one after it," he looked at the CD case, " 'Aftermath.' My brother gave this to me. He's got pretty good taste in music, I think."
"You have a brother?"
"Yeah. And a sister, too. Both younger. He's at college up north and she's still in high school."
"Where?"
"____ _____."
"Oh wow—that's right by where my mom lives. In ____ _____. My aunt, too."
"Oh yeah? I went to ______, too, for undergrad. And my parents live in _____ _____, which is, what, down the street from your mom?"
"Yeah, like two streets over. Where did you go to high school?"
"_________."
"Ah. One of those Catholic school boys."
"Yeah. I guess so," he grimaced and took a drink.
"Everyone knows that the kids who went to Catholic school are the kids who got into all the trouble."
"I guess there's some truth to that," he finished his beer and lit a cigarette. "So, how about you? Did you go to Catholic school?"
"No. But my dad really wanted me to go to ______ ______."
"That would not have been fun."
"Yeah, I think he not-so-secretly hoped I'd become a nun or something. Good Catholic family, and all that."
"Yeah. Mine is, too. I mean, well, yeah. They go to mass every week…" he paused and stared off in the distance. "Wow, well, I can't believe we grew up in practically the same place. That's bizarre. Small world."
"Yes. It is."

So we drank and smoked, laughed about _____ _____, places we'd both hung out. Turned out that we had some acquaintances in common. That familiarity made him seem less intimidating, and the beer made me very comfortable and a little drunk. The CD started over for the third or fourth time and I looked at my watch: 1:30.
He pointed to my wrist, "You look at your watch a lot."
"I like to know what time it is."
He smiled, "Why? You have somewhere to be?"
"No. But I feel a little tipsy."
"Then stay," he stretched out on the floor and rested on his elbows. "Besides, are you okay to drive?"
I wasn't sure I was and I wasn't yet sure what I was doing, "I don't know," I took a drag off my cigarette and looked at my feet.
"Hey, is something wrong?"
"No." But I kept thinking, Nothing has happened yet. You can leave here and still feel good about yourself. Nothing has happened…
"You seem worried about something."
"Worried?"
"I mean are you worried about this? About being here?"
"Why would I be worried?"
"Well, your boyfriend, for starters."
Reality, in the form of the word "boyfriend," sobered me up a touch. I hadn't thought about Victor one iota since I walked in the door. I was so full of adrenaline—there was no room to feel guilty. I took another drag and looked out the window. A streetlight had burned out and made everything thing seem darker.
Quietly, Matthew said, "Well, it's going to be an issue, right?"
"No. It isn't," Right. It won't be an issue if you leave. Right now. Iseult, get up.
He touched my arm, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said anything."
The remaining buzz I had going emboldened me and I stared at him, "Look, when you told me that I could call you anytime I wanted, no strings, I thought that's what you meant."
He looked surprised, "I did say that and I meant it—"
"Then I'm trusting you to keep your word."
He sat up, "Okay. Then let's be honest with each other. What is this about?"
"What is what about?"
"This—situation. What are we doing?"
I hadn't fully considered what an affair would entail or what I wanted. "I'm not sure."
"Well we can't have a real relationship, right?"
"Yes."
"And I'm only going to be here for four, maybe five more months."
"Right."
"So, well," he looked out the window, then back at me, "this is only about…sex. Right?"
I took a drink and sat up on my knees, "Is that what you want?"
"No."
I felt cloudy, "Wait. It's … not?"
"No," he lit a cigarette, "but I'll take whatever kind of relationship with you that I can." I watched the smoke curl around his knees then fade up toward the ceiling.

I got up to go to the bathroom. I could hear the clinking of bottles, the sound of water running. When I came out, he motioned for me to come into the kitchen, "I'm making some coffee." The coffee jolted my brain, bringing me back to the land of the alert, the reasonable. But I didn't want to change my mind.
We sat down at his rickety table and started talking at the same time.
"You—"
"We—"
"You first," he said.
"Okay. We have to have some rules."
He chuckled, "Rules. Yes. That's very romantic."
"This isn't about romance, is it?"
"No," he took a drink, "this is about—something else."
"So you have to understand—there can be no names, no faces, no places. No details about either of our lives. Nothing too personal." It seemed to be the best etiquette to follow when having an affair. I thought it sounded good, but it didn't feel real.
He nodded, "No pressure. No questions. Nothing."
"Besides," I noticed a straw on the counter, much like the ones Victor and I used to snort rails when there wasn't a rolled-up bill handy, "you don't want to know everything about me."
"See, that's where you're wrong."
The sight of the straw made me feel ashamed and my face burned, "Trust me. You don't."
"I don't think there's anything you could say that would make me feel different about you," he leaned over the table and kissed me, "Should we shake hands? You seem to like that sort of thing."
"I don't think that's necessary."

*****

"Can you hand me my shirt?"
"Here. It smells good," he leaned on his side, his head resting on his hand, watching me.
"Like what?"
"I'm not sure what it is. Apples?"
"That's it. Some cheap thing from Bath and Body Works," I zipped up my jeans and looked for my bra.
"It's nice."
"Thanks."
He looked at my watch and handed it to me, "Wow. It's almost 3:30."
"Oh man. I have to work at seven."
"You're more than welcome to stay here."
"Oh no way. I can't. I have to get Skinny Marie's car back."
"Skinny Marie? Ah. A name."
I didn't bother to put on my bra, just shoved it in my back pocket, "It's not an important name."
"Right," he kissed my back, "but--what did you say? Oh, yeah, 'no names, no faces, no places.' We have to follow the rules."

Little did I know just how hard that would be.

Tricky, Maxinquaye
Released in April 1995
Purchased in May or June of 1995 at World Record, Columbus, Ohio