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