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