Allison could count on her hands the number of times she and Andrew had fought. She could count the number of times they'd fought since their high school graduation on one hand. Nearly all of their fights in high school had been about the breakfast club, or about Andrew's friends, or Allison's weird behavior. Allison didn't like calling them fights, because they really weren't. They were more like disagreements.

After their graduation in May of 1985, the pair moved to New York together. Allison had gotten into a small art school there, and Andy had gotten a full ride to NYU on a wrestling scholarship. From there on, fights were more serious. They were about money and school and bills and the girls who flirted with Andy at parties. But they made up. Every time, without fail, they made up and moved on. Their relationship worked better than anyone thought it would. They were happy. So happy that they were oblivious when things started getting bad.

It started with little arguments and disagreements. Yelling because Andy hadn't put his laundry away or because Allison had left the milk out on the counter. Then came bigger arguments because Allison spent too much time on her art or because Andy worked too late. Or because Allison spent too much money on art supplies and not enough on groceries; sometimes they fought because Andy didn't do enough to stop girls from flirting with him at parties. They still made up, but it wasn't the same as before. It wasn't as certain. It was like they were breaking.

On their fifth anniversary, Allison wanted to do something special. She had no classes that day, and she knew Andy had work right after his and wouldn't be home until after seven, which, she decided, gave her plenty of time to cook a nice dinner. Now, she wasn't exactly a master chef, but she could make the basics. Luckily for her, that included spaghetti, Andy's favorite food. She spent the day cleaning the house, setting up the table, and cooking. When the food was done and she thought Andy would be home soon, she got ready. She lacked any designer clothing, but did her best with what was in the closet. Twenty minutes later she was in a black dress and small heels, the necklace Andy had given her on their one year anniversary, and she had brushed her tangled mane out of her face. It was a few minutes past seven when she sat down at the table, waiting for him to come home. At 7:30, he still wasn't there. She watched the hands on the clock spin much too slowly.

8:30. Andy wasn't home. Allison watched the clock.

9:30. Andy wasn't home. Allison started eating her food.

10:30. Andy wasn't home. Allison told herself he'd be home any minute.

11:30. Andy wasn't home. Allison started to cry.

At midnight, realizing it wasn't even their anniversary anymore, Allison got up from the table, went to the couch, and cried herself to sleep in her dress and heels.

Andy crept into the apartment and sensed something off. He hung up his jacket and set his briefcase next to the door before walking into the living room. Glancing over, he saw the table set up in the dining room and Allison asleep on the couch in a dress and heels. He tiptoed over to her and gingerly shook her shoulder.

"Ally," he whispered, crouching next to her. "Ally, wake up. Come get into bed, this couch can't be comfortable." Allison stirred and opened her eyes, rubbing them and smearing what makeup was left on her face.

"What time is it?"

"Close to three, I think. I just got in. How long have you been asleep on the couch?"

"Don't know. A few hours, I guess. Where were you?" Allison spoke louder as she woke up a bit more and stared at Andy.

"Work. Al, I'm pretty tired, I think I'll get to bed. You comin'?"

"No, hang on. 'Work'? That's what you've said every night this week. And last week. That you were 'working late'. What's that even mean?" Allison questioned, crossing her arms.

"That I was working late, Ally."

"Sure. What does it really mean?"

"Exactly that. I was working late. You okay, Ally?"

"It's March 24th," Allison stated simply, as though that answered everything. "Or, it was." Andy looked at her in confusion.

"Yeah? And now it's March 25th."

"March 24th, Andy," Allison glared at him, gesturing to the dining room table and then down at her dress.

"Ally, why do you keep sayin' that? Are you oka-" Andy stopped mid-sentence and looked Ally in the eyes. "Shit."

"Yeah. 'Shit' doesn't really cover it, sporto." Andy flinched a little at that. Allison only brought back the nickname when Andy really pissed her off.

"Shit, Ally, I'm sorry."

"You're sorry? That's it? You're sorry?" Allison clenched her jaw and shook her hair out of her face. "You forgot our five year anniversary, Andrew!"

"I'm sorry! I was working late, I'm stressed out, I don't know what else you want me to say! I don't know what else to say besides I'm really fucking sorry, Ally."

"I know you are, but it's not just tonight! Where were you? Where have you been every night you've said that you were 'working late'? Fucking some secretary at that office?" Allison spat her words at him, enunciating every syllable and clenching her jaw when she finished.

"What?" Andy asked weakly, looking at Allison. "Is that really what you think? You think that just because I'm not home every night at the same time that I must be cheating on you?"

"It's not just working late. You get home after midnight every night and go straight to bed. You're gone before I get up in the morning. When was the last time we went on a date, Andy? When was the last time you kissed me? Maybe I have a shit memory, but it's been a long time." Allison glared at him, refusing to show any sympathy.

"Wow," Andy said, trying not to stare at Allison. "Do you really not trust me that much? If you think I'm cheating on you just because I've been getting home late? Do you trust me at all, Ally?"

"Of course I trust you," Allison's voice broke and she uncrossed her arms only to wrap them around herself. "But what else am I supposed to think?"

"You're supposed to love me and trust me enough to know that I'd never do that! That I'm not doing that!" Andy raised his voice a bit, and Allison began closing in on herself. "Don't you trust me?" His voice softened and Allison looked up at him.

"I don't know."

"You really think I'm cheating on you, don't you?"

"What else am I supposed to think Andy? Tell me what else I'm supposed to think other than that when you're home late every night and out early every morning!"

"Nothing! You aren't supposed to think anything! You're supposed to know that I would never do that to you! And that I'm not!" At his words, Allison glared at him.

"Well I'm not so sure! I can't be sure because it's happening everyday now and maybe you wouldn't tell me even if you were! I'm not the same Allison I was in high school. I'm not as oblivious anymore, Andy. If you are cheating on me, just fucking tell me already. I don't want to cry myself to sleep again."

"I'm not cheating on you."

"Make me believe it."

"How am I supposed to do that? You clearly don't believe me, so I don't know what will make you!"

"I don't know, Andy! I don't know because I'm not supposed to think this in the first place and you aren't supposed to be doing things that make me even more certain of it! Not stopping those flirty girls at parties is one thing, but I have real reason to believe that you're fucking someone else and kissing someone else and that you love someone else and if you are I need you to tell me and I need to know so I can leave. So I can try to move on because as much as you say you love me you must not if you're cheating on me. So just tell me already, dammit!" Allison shrank away from him after her outburst. Neither of them were expecting it, and Andy could see on her face that she wouldn't believe a thing he said. But he had to figure out a way to tell her that he never had and never would cheat on her.

"Ally, I'm no-," he began, but Allison raised a hand and cut him off.

"Don't." And with that, she stormed into the bedroom and locked the door.

Andy slept on the couch that night.

The next morning, Allison got up at 5, slipped a piece of paper in Andy's briefcase, and went back to bed.

Andy left the apartment for work at 8, saying nothing to Allison, who he assumed was still asleep. Once he was at work, he immersed himself in it until noon, when he took a break and opened his briefcase to look for something for a coworker. A folded sheet of paper fell to the floor and opened, where he recognized Allison's bold, sloppy handwriting.

Andy,

We don't fight like that a lot. I cried myself to sleep twice last night over you, and several times over the last week. I'm conflicted. I trust you so much, more than I've ever trusted anyone else. But cheating seems like a possibility. Maybe because it always has been. Since high school there have been other girls. Prettier girls, more popular girls, nicer girls, more normal girls. You never flirted with any of them. I still don't understand why. It would never have been that hard for you to leave me. I'm just Allison, I always have been. I wear too much eyeliner and I don't brush my hair enough and I eat weird foods and make weird noises and spend too much time painting and not enough time with people and I am in love with you. But you're Andrew Clarke. You're popular and friendly and good looking and an athlete and for a long time I thought you'd leave but you never did. And now I am. I don't want to call this a break up. Time apart, maybe. I need to be me and you need to be you for a while and then maybe we'll work again. But I don't want to cry myself to sleep again over you, not right now. I left some money for rent and bills. I'll be back someday. Soon? I don't know. I'll write to you. And please don't beat yourself up over this- we both need it. As I'm writing this I don't quite believe that but deep down I know it's true. Don't wait up, sporto. I love you.

~Allison

Andy read the letter twice, told his boss he was sick, and read the letter over again on the subway ride home.

When he got to the apartment, Allison was already gone.