Roger did not need to open his eyes to realize that it was raining. It was all in the sound: of the steady pounding on the rooftops, of the water spattering against the glass windows, of the occasional ping whenever a drop hit the steel chef's table that sat in the kitchen. The roof never stood a chance against a downpour. He and his roommate would be sidestepping pots and pans on the floor the whole day, and which would be placed strategically throughout the loft to catch the droplets.
Last night's binge drinking was coming back full force in the form of a raging hangover. Roger threw his bare forearm across his eyes and groped for the bottle of water he kept at his nightstand. He took a swig without fully waking up.
Beside him was his bedfellow, whom he'd picked up after the gig he'd played before last night's binge drinking: a young, painfully shy scrawny blond boy, who spoke in rambling monologues once he'd downed a few drinks. They'd met at the venue where the Well Hungarians had been playing, a narrow hole-in-the-wall on Bleecker appropriately called Mesh—it seemed as if you couldn't move from one end of the club to the other without getting too close for comfort with another customer. Roger sat at the bar, playing with a book of matches and downing Lemon Drops as the boy nursed a bottle (which would be a total of four by the time the night was over) of Miller. He was "just visiting" from Rhode Island, but once Roger began drunkenly kissing the nape of his neck, he'd been persuaded to stay.
Roger could tell the boy was nervous once he got him into bed, the way his breathing became shallow when Roger touched and kissed him intimately, and the way he kept adjusting his glasses until Roger removed them from his face. There was enough alcohol in their systems to keep the situation from being awkward, more for the boy than for Roger. Even though Roger had slept with guys before, it was not something he did often.
Roger sat up in bed slightly, yawned and reached over the edge of the bed, running his hand along the wooden floor in search of an article of clothing. The first thing he pulled up was a pair of red boxers—not his, the boy's. He looked to his left, where the boy still slept soundly, one pale bare shoulder uncovered by the flannel comforter. He sighed in his sleep and rolled over, facing Roger.
He really is a boy, Roger thought to himself, studying the boy's face: a square jaw, firm cheeks, pale eyebrows and lashes, a few freckles across his elfish nose. If he hadn't said that he was a student at Brown, and produced an ID at the bar, Roger would have guessed he was still in high school.
Roger nudged him awake. "Hey. Hey, kid."
The boy knitted his brow and made a groaning noise. He shifted until Roger nudged him again and his eyes fluttered open. They were a clear dark blue. "Hi," he said hoarsely.
"Hi. Come on, you gotta wake up and head out of here."
"…Why?"
"Because I don't want to explain to my roommate." Roger could parade around all the pretty girls he wanted when Collins was around, but whenever he brought home another guy, he always felt slightly embarrassed, and ushered them quickly out the door without so much as a cup of coffee. However, judging by the time, Collins would be at NYU by now, but the boy didn't know that. Roger tossed him his boxers. The two dressed in silence, the only noise being the rain on the roof. Roger pulled on a pair of lounge pants and walked the boy to the door.
"So," the boy said sheepishly as they stood in front of the door. They faced each other. "Can I…maybe get your number?"
Roger blinked. "Well…um, well, listen…sorry, what was your name again?"
"Mark."
"Right, Mark. Well, listen, Mark, I'm not…I mean, I don't…I don't do this very often. With other guys."
The boy, Mark, looked slightly dejected. "Oh."
"I mean, it was a great night and everything. I haven't had that in a long time, but I just don't do this often."
"…Oh." Mark waited for Roger to explain what he meant by "that", but he didn't.
"I'm sorry."
"N-no, that's okay. I...I get it."
"I guess I'll…see you around then? If you come back of any of the shows. Did you sign the mailing list last night?"
"That reminds me. I forgot my camera."
"Ah." Roger watched Mark dart back to the bedroom to retrieve his bulky messenger bag, which contained his precious 16MM camera. He'd been filming the band when Roger spotted him last night. Mark returned promptly, clutching the bag to his chest. Around his neck was a blue and white scarf, which Roger hadn't remembered seeing before.
"Nearly forgot this too," he said uneasily, fingering the frayed material.
"Right," Roger said, uninterested. "Do you need an umbrella or something?"
"Umbrella? No, no I'll be fine, I guess."
An awkward silence settled in momentarily. Roger hated these moments, when he actually had to talk with his one-night stand. He was better off if they just left in the middle of the night or early in the morning without a goodbye. Confrontations just complicated the acts of post-coitus. Mark leaned up against the door and adjusted his glasses; Roger stood before him, his hands shoved into the pockets of his pants. He opened his mouth to say something, but changed his mind and closed it again.
"I'll…just go now," Mark blurted. He opened the door of the loft and let himself out.
Roger emitted a surprised "huh" before meandering over to the kitchen to start making a pot of coffee. He took the bag of coffee grinds from the freezer, poured them into a filter and then placed the filter into the coffeemaker before he glanced out the window, just in time to see Mark hailing a taxi at the end of the block, his hand waving wildly in the air, his jacket pulled up over his head. Roger watched Mark get into the taxi and drive off.
Well, that's that, Roger thought to himself. I won't be seeing him again.
