3. Mos Def, "The Boogie Man Song"

 

For the following year, we are inseparable — never mind that we're already separated. We text all day, every day. We learn each other's secrets, fears, senses of humor. I learn that she's been depressed most of her adult life, that this was the cause of her departure from school. We both wish openly to be reunited. She travels two hours each way to visit me in Philadelphia regularly. For cultural reasons, I can't be seen at her house, but I get hotel rooms for us in New York whenever I can.

We make plans, only half-jokingly, to live together, one day, in New York. We'll see shows, eat at nice restaurants, I'll take her to the ballet and film premieres, she'll wear beautiful gowns, I'll wear handsome suits. It will all be quite grand. I send her the undeniably sexy "Boogie Man Song" and tell her that as long as we are together, nothing else matters. We're implicitly exclusive and have exchanged L words, but she's resistant to the idea of "making it official." I don't push it. We have sex for the first time.

 

4. The Black Keys, "The Lengths"

 

She returns to college, not quite over her depression and extremely anxious about jumping back into the fray. Around the same time, we take the plunge and make it official. Things do not go well. After a few triumphant weeks of making it to class and handing in homework, she begins to fall behind. She barricades herself in her bedroom.

As a boyfriend, I display varying levels of competence. On one side, I spend 95% of my free time with her in her bedroom. I wake up early to pick up breakfast and take it to her dorm before class. I do my homework at her desk. I spend my weekend afternoons playing cards with her on her bed.

On the other side, I begin to resent the stark lack of happiness I'm experiencing. When I'm with her, I'm sad that she's sad — the environment is stifling. When I'm elsewhere, I feel guilty for enjoying myself when I know that she's sad. I don't voice any of this, but she picks up that something's wrong, and she panics. She becomes convinced that I no longer love her, that I only spend time with her because I think I have to. When I get up to go to the bathroom, she attacks me with questions about why I'm leaving and where I'm going. If I spend one night of the week hanging out with my friends, she takes it as proof that I never wanted to be with her for the other six, and was just putting in time until I could get away.

I'm utterly exhausted by the constant struggle of having to prove that I love her. I think, "I'm nineteen and in college. Life shouldn't be this hard." I resent her more. I suggest that she spend a weekend visiting her mother so that I can have a moment to breathe, and the conversation escalates into a five-hour screaming and crying match, at the end of which she's quit school and told me to go fuck myself forever. She leaves town the next morning.

The Black Keys' "The Lengths" is dripping with fatigue. It feels like a last plea from a tired soul; it's indignant and bruised, but with an undercurrent of enduring love. I play it on repeat.