How did we get here, how the hell…
The last year had been a blur for everyone. Honestly, how could so many things happen in the span of twelve months? It was almost as if Mark didn't know who he was anymore. He didn't know his friends, either. Roger was leaving, Mimi was back with Benny and back on the drugs, Collins was a hollow shell of a man. Maureen was single and Joanne was heartbroken. And Angel, dear sweet Angel, was six feet underground. He was cold and he was dead. The very thought made Mark's heart ache.
Pan left, close on the steeple of the church.
The church. That was where he'd first met Angel. Mark could remember walking in there, not even knowing what he was doing; he'd been raised Jewish, after all, but the God he'd been raised with wasn't helping much. There was rent to pay, Roger had all but faded into oblivion. Mark needed someone to go to, and he thought that church would help. How was he to have known that he'd run into his own personal Angel?
How did I get here? How the hell… Christmas. Christmas Eve, last year.
Mark could still remember the phone call from a year ago; his mother trying to reassure him that Maureen being a lesbian wasn't the worst thing that could happen. Of course, Mark had always known his girlfriend's preferences; wasn't that why they'd gotten together in the first place? If it hadn't been for Joanne, everything would have been perfect. Nobody would have ever remembered what Mark was like before, except for Angel. Angel always remembered.
How could a night so frozen be so scalding hot?
That first night with Angel had been nothing short of pure magic; even though it had been five degrees below zero and there was no heat in the apartment that Mark and Roger shared, he never felt a chill on his skin. Angel had been there, shedding glowing light and beautiful words and heated passion between Mark's own bedsheets. Who needed to pray when there was a living Angel in your presence?
How can a morning this mild be so raw?
This morning was almost fifty degrees, and yet Mark had never felt colder. There was an icy hollow in the pit of his stomach that he couldn't seem to warm with tea or with coffee… or with Angel's light. That light had gone out forever.
Why are entire years strewn on the cutting room floor of memories?
Those years with Angel, then with Roger, then with Maureen. Mark never spent a night alone in his bed until a year ago, that fateful Christmas when everyone fell in love. He'd always had a warm body to hold, but none of that mattered anymore. The only body he'd ever truly wanted to hold was cold now.
When single frames from one magic night forever flicker in close-up on the 3D IMAX of my mind?
That magic night. There had been more than one, of course; Angel's magic was evident, but there was a time when Angel was gone and Roger's sweet music had echoed off of the walls of Mark's bedroom. That was a kind of magic in its own. Mark had never thought that he could be happy again, but Roger filled him with music where Angel had filled him with light. It was a whole new kind of magic, a rougher, more raw magic, that belonged only to Roger.
That's poetic. That's pathetic.
Mark would never forget the argument that pulled Roger from his arms for the last time. He'd wanted to move away, far away with Roger, and forget everything. He'd had romantic dreams and wishful ideals, and Roger had shot down every one. He knew better. Roger always knew that he wasn't good for Mark, but it took him years to figure out that Mark wasn't good for him, either.
Why did Mimi knock on Roger's door?
Why did that little vixen come storming into Roger's life? After April had died, Mark had been the one to comfort his best friend and roommate. Mark had brought Roger into his bed, into his heart, and lost him just as easily. Still, after Maureen had gone on to greener pastures, Mark always imagined that Roger would come slinking back between his sheets and into his arms. How foolish Mark had been. That little brown eyed shadow of a girl had swept Roger off his feet in a way that Mark could never figure out.
And Collins choose that phone booth back where Angel set up his drums?
Angel. His beautiful Angel. How could he not have known that his soulmate had only been feet away from him, in the alley next to the apartment building? How was it that Collins was the lucky one, stumbling over a savior in disguise? Why couldn't it have been Mark all over again, like that afternoon so many years ago in a church? He would never forgive himself for letting Angel get away from him twice.
Why did Maureen's equipment break down?
The last thing Mark had needed was to meet Joanne. He knew how to justify being angry at Maureen; after all, the girl had simply walked out on him the first time an attractive set of bosoms had sauntered past her. How was that fair? But when he met Joanne, the spitfire, the lawyer, the responsible and mature woman, he understood why Maureen loved her. How could he still be angry with his ex-girlfriend, if she could even be called that, if she had such a good reason for leaving? How could he be angry with any of them; with Angel, with Roger, with Maureen, if they'd all had such good reasons?
Why am I the witness, and when I capture it on film, will it mean that it's the end and I'm alone?
At least Mark still had his camera; his camera and his memories. What else did he need to survive?