5. TV on the Radio, "Ambulance"

 

Several months go by. I graduate, move to New York, and feel washed over by a sudden emptiness. I call her. She's hesitant and preoccupied. Her voice is the same, but I recognize nothing else about her. She's cold, distant, indifferent. She answers my questions efficiently. She asks nothing about me. We agree not to talk on a regular basis, but exchange emails sporadically over the next few weeks. She casually mentions that she's taken her second-ever sexual partner. It dawns on me that it's really over between us.

I'm crushed. I cry for days. She bluntly reminds me that I had sex with someone else long before she did. But she's never been as casual about sex as I am; for her to get that far with someone else, she would've had to completely excise me from her heart. When I point that out, she doesn't argue.

I grew up in the Caribbean; I remember weathering hurricanes as a child. This is like a hurricane that lasts for weeks. It's dark, quiet, and wet. I struggle to get through a single meeting at work or commute home without tearing up. Music is not my friend — everything reminds me of her, and most song lyrics are like rubbing sandpaper on a skinned knee. "Ambulance" is one of the few I can bear; its voice is that of a man who acknowledges his own self-destructive habits, and embraces them. This is somehow reassuring to me.

A few weeks pass. We try to make a friendship work. She meets, begins dating, and has sex with her third guy. In a typically male way, I ask too many questions, and she answers them without hesitation. I know his penis size, how many times he's made her come, what positions they've used. It is torture. We will agree, much later, that this was a terrible idea. No shit.

 

6. Corinne Bailey Rae, "I'd Do It All Again"

 

It's been eleven months since we've spoken. One day she sends me a text. It says "Hi." I need no further convincing. Before long, we're back to our regular rhythm. It amazes me how easily things go back to normal. My friends wring their hands unanimously.

It's not long before we've made the ill-advised decision to resume having sex. I assure her that I've gained the emotional distance needed for us to have a productive friends-with-benefits relationship. Rightfully skeptical, she insists on reminding me as often as possible that she doesn't want anything serious with me, and that I shouldn't read into it. That she's still looking for a real relationship elsewhere, and has no interest in trying "us" again. I pretend that this hurts me less than it does.

I play Corinne Bailey Rae's song "I'd Do It All Again" for her and tell her I have no regrets. She bristles at this and any other romantic notions I bring up. I'm okay with that. I just want her to hear it.

 

7. OK Go, "Last Leaf"

 

Unbeknownst to either of us, something happens. Perhaps we're both maturing, or just getting tired of self-destruction. I stop asking questions. We don't talk about relationships anymore. She invites me to the ballet. We dress up and hold hands. We go out to dinner every Friday, we surprise each other with gifts, I rub her feet when they get cold, she lies naked on my chest and doesn't remind me that she's not in love with me anymore. We're supportive and attentive without bitterness or discord. We play house and somehow fashion a better relationship than we had when we were actually dating.

We both agree that this is a temporary thing. We occasionally date other people but, for God's sake, we know enough not to talk about it.

 

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