Editor's Note: No, it's not deja vu; I really am republishing this entry, newly edited, but not new. I decided I need to finish this story because I don't like having it out there all unraveled. It does have an end. If you want to go back and read the story from the beginning, click here and scroll to the last question.It felt exactly like an authentic break up, which I wasn't expecting. I spent a lot of time chain smoking and staring forlornly out my bedroom window, listening to The Smiths. Still, I had to laugh at the absurdity of it: I was trying to get over someone I shouldn't have been under in the first place. Along with being completely inappropriate, it just made me feel like a fool. It started out as a game to me and had devolved into something reckless. I kept replaying the
argument in my mind and kept stopping on the look Matthew gave me as I walked out the door. I'd never seen hurt like that before. I didn't even know I was capable of evoking such a reaction in someone.
The week slumped along. I halfheartedly reviewed for my finals and just as halfheartedly took them. On Wednesday, I had to drop off a paper for the GA who was teaching my _______ class. All the _______ GAs shared an office space, and I'd been avoiding it because I didn't want to run into Matthew, but this was the last day I could turn it in and I needed to talk to my GA. I waited until office hours were almost over then walked down to the _______ office. Of course, Matthew's voice met me at the door, coupled with a giggly, annoying female one belonging to someone who I guessed was one of his students. She was asking questions about an assignment, though it was clear she was flirting with him. I hated her. Standing outside the door, I listened to them talk and felt my blood boil. I wanted to beat the shit out of her. I thought about it, what it would be like to feel my fist connect with her face, to feel my knuckles smash into her nose. Every giggle increased my anger and I tightened my fists until I felt a sharp prick in my right palm. A staple. I was crushing my paper. Then I thought,
You have no right to feel like this. Of course, "
Separate Lives," the awful Phil Collins and Marilyn Martin ballad from the 1980s movie
White Nights, came into my head:
You have no right to ask me how I feel/
You have no right to speak to me so kind/
We can't go on just holding on to time/
Now that we're living separate lives…Annoyed with myself for being so maudlin, I took a deep breath and walked into the office. Matthew stopped in the middle of his sentence when he saw me. I stared to mouth, "Hey," but he looked away and turned back to Giggle Girl and said, "Sorry. I was saying that the reliability of the narrator is in question, and what you need to do now is..." I slunk into my GA's cubicle and didn't listen to one thing that came out of her mouth the entire time I was there. When I left, the office was empty.
*****
By Friday, I was jumping out of my skin, anxious to get out of town. I thought about leaving for home that night, but never felt safe driving on the highway after dark, and I had work to do at Avery's. Victor called a few times, said he needed to talk to me, but I hadn't called back. I hadn't thought about him much since he'd been gone. That seemed significant. Matthew had been right: It was preposterous to think that Victor didn't know something was going on. Maybe that was what he wanted to talk to me about. The thought of being found out made me feel more relieved than guilty.
Without the usual thousands of students milling around, the campus seemed larger than usual and somewhat institutional. D_____ Hall was like a ghost town; the only person I saw was the janitor. We talked for a minute about the weather, the news, then I made a pot of coffee and dove in to the work Avery left for me—-a mostly administrative project that I'd been avoiding, a lot of filing, a lot of sorting. It didn't require much of me mentally, which was exactly what I needed. I turned on the radio—an oldies station was all I could get—and bounced around the office, singing along, sorting, filing. When I looked up again, I saw a silhouette outside the office door. From the shape, I could tell it wasn't the janitor. My heart skipped and I opened it to find Matthew in mid-knock.
He didn't smile, but his eyes were bright. "Hey."
I was elated. "How long have you been standing there?"
"Long enough to understand why you're not a music major," he laughed.
"Yeah, well…" I just wanted to stand there and drink him in-—his face, his voice, that laugh.
"How have you been?"
I shrugged, "Well, finals are over."
He nodded, "Yeah, I had a lot of writing to do this week. Don't think it's exactly prize-winning stuff."
"I'm sorry."
"It's no big deal. That's what backspace is for," he set his backpack on the floor. "You leaving soon?"
"Yes. I was just finishing up. Are you?"
"Yeah," he looked at me, then at the floor. He said quietly, "I'll wait for you."
We walked toward south campus, smoking, both of us quiet, much like the
first time we walked home together. When we got to 12th and Neil, we stood under the same streetlight and looked at each other.
He stubbed out his cigarette and adjusted his backpack, "So, you're leaving for home tomorrow, right?"
"Yep."
"You staying the whole week?"
"I'm not sure. Depends on what goes on, I guess..." I kicked at some rocks on the sidewalk, "Listen, I'm sorry for what I said. I hope you know—I didn't-"
"Me, too. I didn't mean to lecture you or insult you—"
"No—" I reached for his arm, "What you said was important. It was important for me to hear it. I mean, I needed to hear it." I looked up at him, "I have some things to work out. On this trip."
He nodded, took off his glasses and cleaned them on his Clash t-shirt.
"I know it's last minute, and I don't know if you have plans later—"
He put his glasses back on, "No."
"No... you have plans?"
He looked a little unsure but he half-smiled, "I mean no. No plans. Come over."
Phil Collins and Marilyn Martin, "Separate Lives"From the White Nights OST
Y'all is buggin' if you think I ever bought it.
