He always calls me Allison. The only other person that calls me Allison is my mother. I’d like to say it was my house I was leaving, and my car I was getting into, but I can’t say that. The house is beautiful. When I’m there I feel important. I feel sexy. I feel empowered, but I never feel home. The car. Well, technically, it is mine. I didn’t buy it. I didn’t pick it out. I certainly didn’t ask for it. Every morning I start it, my stomach tosses and turns. The car is beautiful. It makes me feel important. Sexy. Empowered. Like I stole it.
Pulling into the driveway of my non-orgasmic house, the morning DJ says it’s 6:45, one hour and fifteen minutes before I have to be at work. I am not sleeping with half the town, only the man with the house. I shouldn’t have to clarify that; it makes me feel better saying that. We are both consenting adults, there’s no reason to feel bad. I am not doing anything wrong, yet I feel like a prostitute. Actually, prostitution seems nobler than what I’m doing. At least there is some honesty in prostitution, both parties know what’s at stake, and there aren’t any games. Guy gives money, girl gives sex, there are no games. I’m not even sure it’s about sex at this point. I’m not sure what it is about.
I used to be Ali with a Jeep, now I’m Allison with a BMW. I used to take the top off the Jeep, pull my hair back, welcome the sun on my arms, and smirk with the wind in my skirt. Now, I worry the cheap rubber bands will ruin my $400 haircut, the sun will uneven my fake tan, and the skirts so long and tight, they wouldn’t move in a hurricane. Where did Ali go? I miss her. Ali didn’t care about shit. Allison worries about everything. Ali did whatever she wanted. Allison calls to him to say, she’s at the fucking mall. Ali was reckless. Ali wrecked the only man she ever loved. Allison was born.