My new place is on the same street as her old place. A left turn from my front yard, a half-mile or so, and there's the shitty apartment complex that she lived in for three years. It's a distractingly-bland mass of gray concrete - apparently built as an homage to Eastern European housing from the Cold War era - in an otherwise well-kept neighborhood of restored houses and perfect Southern lawns. It has no business being in this neighborhood - an eyesore and constant reminder to the neighbors of how much higher their property values would be if it wasn't around.
As shitty as the apartment complex was and continues to be, it was still the place that she called home. She was comfortable there and had no intention of leaving. She was happy, her two cats seemed happy, and the nearby Mapco station where she made daily purchases of cigarettes and beer was certainly happy. But then the money ran out.
She was there until the full uselessness of her new philosophy degree became apparent. Unable to find work, with her student loans becoming due, and with too much pride to grab a restaurant or department store job, she had little choice but to leave town and move back in with her parents. In the handful of conversations we've had after she left, it's clear that she's been miserable ever since. And she still hasn't found a job.
On .025% of the nights in that three-year period (yeah, I did the math), I was there as well. Every couple of weeks, the call would come. It was always late at night, and most-certainly-always after she had had a couple drinks. She wanted me over. I rarely had anything better to do.
I still think of it as her street. Whenever I leave my house in the evening and head in the direction of that shitty apartment complex, I think of the anticipation I inevitably had upon turning onto her street; the anticipation that - after some chit-chat, some drinks, and a little bit of weed - we'd be wrapped around each other for the rest of the night. I think of the frequent times when she would answer the door with only a robe and a smile. My first can of beer would already be opened. A Peter Gabriel CD would be playing (this was the only bad part of the experience).
She made do with me because she had no one else to call and school kept her too busy to find better options. My reasoning was similar - while I didn't have school to deal with, work had been successfully hijacking my social life for quite some time. Our worlds were totally separate outside of these encounters - we hung out in different places, had different friends, had different tastes in music, and lived in opposite ends of the city. No one knew but us, though I'm sure few would have cared. It was a secret that had no reason to be a secret.
As shitty as the apartment complex was and continues to be, it was still the place that she called home. She was comfortable there and had no intention of leaving. She was happy, her two cats seemed happy, and the nearby Mapco station where she made daily purchases of cigarettes and beer was certainly happy. But then the money ran out.
She was there until the full uselessness of her new philosophy degree became apparent. Unable to find work, with her student loans becoming due, and with too much pride to grab a restaurant or department store job, she had little choice but to leave town and move back in with her parents. In the handful of conversations we've had after she left, it's clear that she's been miserable ever since. And she still hasn't found a job.
On .025% of the nights in that three-year period (yeah, I did the math), I was there as well. Every couple of weeks, the call would come. It was always late at night, and most-certainly-always after she had had a couple drinks. She wanted me over. I rarely had anything better to do.
I still think of it as her street. Whenever I leave my house in the evening and head in the direction of that shitty apartment complex, I think of the anticipation I inevitably had upon turning onto her street; the anticipation that - after some chit-chat, some drinks, and a little bit of weed - we'd be wrapped around each other for the rest of the night. I think of the frequent times when she would answer the door with only a robe and a smile. My first can of beer would already be opened. A Peter Gabriel CD would be playing (this was the only bad part of the experience).
She made do with me because she had no one else to call and school kept her too busy to find better options. My reasoning was similar - while I didn't have school to deal with, work had been successfully hijacking my social life for quite some time. Our worlds were totally separate outside of these encounters - we hung out in different places, had different friends, had different tastes in music, and lived in opposite ends of the city. No one knew but us, though I'm sure few would have cared. It was a secret that had no reason to be a secret.
