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