Autumn cut through the loft's window, arranging itself in patterns across faded
sheets. The familiar slam of the front door let Mark know that Roger had left the
apartment. He counted the 9 10 11 12 heavy, even steps it took Roger to reach the
stairwell, open the door and jog down the steps.
When the yellow-stained ceiling grew too dull to stare at, he rolled to the left and
pretended he had a stereo. In his head, Santana and that guy from Matchbox20 worked
something heavy and cool, twanging voice and smooth guitar grinding together as Mark
imagined wet, lean Spanish women slithering around the room. Wrinkling his nose, he
grabbed an imaginary remote control and skipped to a pristine version of Fania Fenelon
singing "Un bel di." The flexible, slick girls disappeared one by one while the
soundtrack in his head continued as he went over his vague plans for the day. Nothing
promising. He thought he'd call Collins and see if Mr. Philosophy could get him into the
media labs for some editing, but that's about it. Mark had been trying to do as little as
possible since Mimi's funeral--the idea was that he'd always be around if Roger needed
anything. Anything. But things hadn't worked out the way he had expected. Roger had
been upset, sure, Mark thought, after all, the dents in the already bumpy surface of the
wall could attest to that. What was really worrying him was the fact that Roger was
actually functioning. If Mark had learned anything in all their years of friendship, it was
that Roger had a habit of allowing grief and ill-humour to take over his life. After all of
the wall-punching and stony silences, Roger had woken up one morning, called his
bandmates and made arrangements for the next rehearsal. Just like that. Gigs weren't
exactly rolling in, but he was doing business. * That asshole has more of a life than I do,
Mark admitted ruefully, and there's something wrong with that. * Mark didn't believe for
a second that Roger had bought into that "no day but today" crap. Basically, he was
living in a constant state of wariness, waiting around for that other shoe to drop, and
when it did, he hoped to god he'd be there with a safety net.
Rubbing his hands over his face, Mark rolled off the mattress and got to his feet.
He'd fallen into the habit of sleeping in his clothes--pants, shoes and all. Sure, it was
kind of gross, but no one really cared what he smelled like anyway, and besides, it made
life a hell of a lot easier. He splashed some cold water on his face, grabbed his coat and
scarf, and headed for the door. Catching his reflection in the shining glass of the
window, Mark stopped. He'd lost some weight, and his sleeves hung raggedly off of
spider arms. Every cowlick on his head stood straight up, tight blonde curls poking out in
every conceivable direction. His already pale skin appeared translucent. He hoped it was
just the light, because he looked like death, well, death if death would be caught dead in a
plaid coat. Grimacing, he rubbed at red-rimmed eyes and thought of Roger's calm good
looks, at the face that always seemed scrubbed and fresh. * Shit *, Mark heard himself think.
* His girlfriend dies, he's got AIDS, and I'm the one suffering.* He instantly felt guilty for
the thought. Scratching at his collar as he walked out the door, Mark pursed his cupid
bow mouth. It felt as though he'd been wearing the same sweater for 5 years.
***
It had never been before, but it was the case now that the simple fact of Mark
caring was enough. Roger didn't know quite why, but he knew it was true. It occurred to
Roger that he was the only man his age he knew who actually still had a "best friend."
Besides Mark, of course. Sometimes, with their jokes, dogpiles, constant chatter and, of
course, the candy bar wrappers all over the floor, it seemed like more of a clubhouse than
a home. What made it home was Mark's presence, that excitable voice which could
range from dry sarcasm to high-pitched incredulity and irritation in 0-6 seconds, the
ubiquitous camera, that habit he had of pushing thick-framed glasses up the bridge of his
nose with his middle finger. As terribly cheesy as it sounded, it had taken all of this shit--
the virus, death, April, Angel, Mimi, all of it--to allow Roger to appreciate Mark. Mark
was everything that Roger wasn't, so full of concern for everyone else. He spent his
energy on caring for his friends, and then, used whatever was left for himself. Roger
wished every day, every fucking day, that he could take back what he had said last
Halloween. He knew that Mark had forgotten it, surely, unless he'd gotten it on film, but
nevertheless, the words hovered in the back of Roger's head. He'd never apologized, not
out loud, anyway. He thought about it all the time, usually when he was watching Mark
sleep early in the morning. Speaking of things he hadn't told Mark, he also hadn't told
him about the whole sleep-watching thing. *Wouldn't that just be perfect? As if he
doesn't think I'm fucked up enough already, he needs to know that I stare at him when
he's tossing and turning at 7 A.M..*
***
*Shit,* Mark thought,* he must be pretty fucked up if he watches me sleep at 7 A.M..*
He wasn't at all sure what all that was about, but he knew it must have something to do
with Mimi. *He must be so afraid of losing me too.*
***
The more Roger thought about it, the more he realized that it didn't have anything
at all to do with losing Mark. The opposite, even—Mark was the one thing in his life,
including his life, that Roger wasn't afraid of losing, because somewhere, buried under
layers of doubt, he knew that he couldn't lose Mark. That it wouldn't happen, ever.
When it came down to it, it would be the other way around. Mark was both stable and
stabilizing--two things Mimi and April had never been. *Why couldn't Mark be
a--* Roger stopped himself. If he wasn't mistaken, he was about to say, "Why couldn't
Mark be a girl?" *What the fuck was that supposed to mean?*
sheets. The familiar slam of the front door let Mark know that Roger had left the
apartment. He counted the 9 10 11 12 heavy, even steps it took Roger to reach the
stairwell, open the door and jog down the steps.
When the yellow-stained ceiling grew too dull to stare at, he rolled to the left and
pretended he had a stereo. In his head, Santana and that guy from Matchbox20 worked
something heavy and cool, twanging voice and smooth guitar grinding together as Mark
imagined wet, lean Spanish women slithering around the room. Wrinkling his nose, he
grabbed an imaginary remote control and skipped to a pristine version of Fania Fenelon
singing "Un bel di." The flexible, slick girls disappeared one by one while the
soundtrack in his head continued as he went over his vague plans for the day. Nothing
promising. He thought he'd call Collins and see if Mr. Philosophy could get him into the
media labs for some editing, but that's about it. Mark had been trying to do as little as
possible since Mimi's funeral--the idea was that he'd always be around if Roger needed
anything. Anything. But things hadn't worked out the way he had expected. Roger had
been upset, sure, Mark thought, after all, the dents in the already bumpy surface of the
wall could attest to that. What was really worrying him was the fact that Roger was
actually functioning. If Mark had learned anything in all their years of friendship, it was
that Roger had a habit of allowing grief and ill-humour to take over his life. After all of
the wall-punching and stony silences, Roger had woken up one morning, called his
bandmates and made arrangements for the next rehearsal. Just like that. Gigs weren't
exactly rolling in, but he was doing business. * That asshole has more of a life than I do,
Mark admitted ruefully, and there's something wrong with that. * Mark didn't believe for
a second that Roger had bought into that "no day but today" crap. Basically, he was
living in a constant state of wariness, waiting around for that other shoe to drop, and
when it did, he hoped to god he'd be there with a safety net.
Rubbing his hands over his face, Mark rolled off the mattress and got to his feet.
He'd fallen into the habit of sleeping in his clothes--pants, shoes and all. Sure, it was
kind of gross, but no one really cared what he smelled like anyway, and besides, it made
life a hell of a lot easier. He splashed some cold water on his face, grabbed his coat and
scarf, and headed for the door. Catching his reflection in the shining glass of the
window, Mark stopped. He'd lost some weight, and his sleeves hung raggedly off of
spider arms. Every cowlick on his head stood straight up, tight blonde curls poking out in
every conceivable direction. His already pale skin appeared translucent. He hoped it was
just the light, because he looked like death, well, death if death would be caught dead in a
plaid coat. Grimacing, he rubbed at red-rimmed eyes and thought of Roger's calm good
looks, at the face that always seemed scrubbed and fresh. * Shit *, Mark heard himself think.
* His girlfriend dies, he's got AIDS, and I'm the one suffering.* He instantly felt guilty for
the thought. Scratching at his collar as he walked out the door, Mark pursed his cupid
bow mouth. It felt as though he'd been wearing the same sweater for 5 years.
***
It had never been before, but it was the case now that the simple fact of Mark
caring was enough. Roger didn't know quite why, but he knew it was true. It occurred to
Roger that he was the only man his age he knew who actually still had a "best friend."
Besides Mark, of course. Sometimes, with their jokes, dogpiles, constant chatter and, of
course, the candy bar wrappers all over the floor, it seemed like more of a clubhouse than
a home. What made it home was Mark's presence, that excitable voice which could
range from dry sarcasm to high-pitched incredulity and irritation in 0-6 seconds, the
ubiquitous camera, that habit he had of pushing thick-framed glasses up the bridge of his
nose with his middle finger. As terribly cheesy as it sounded, it had taken all of this shit--
the virus, death, April, Angel, Mimi, all of it--to allow Roger to appreciate Mark. Mark
was everything that Roger wasn't, so full of concern for everyone else. He spent his
energy on caring for his friends, and then, used whatever was left for himself. Roger
wished every day, every fucking day, that he could take back what he had said last
Halloween. He knew that Mark had forgotten it, surely, unless he'd gotten it on film, but
nevertheless, the words hovered in the back of Roger's head. He'd never apologized, not
out loud, anyway. He thought about it all the time, usually when he was watching Mark
sleep early in the morning. Speaking of things he hadn't told Mark, he also hadn't told
him about the whole sleep-watching thing. *Wouldn't that just be perfect? As if he
doesn't think I'm fucked up enough already, he needs to know that I stare at him when
he's tossing and turning at 7 A.M..*
***
*Shit,* Mark thought,* he must be pretty fucked up if he watches me sleep at 7 A.M..*
He wasn't at all sure what all that was about, but he knew it must have something to do
with Mimi. *He must be so afraid of losing me too.*
***
The more Roger thought about it, the more he realized that it didn't have anything
at all to do with losing Mark. The opposite, even—Mark was the one thing in his life,
including his life, that Roger wasn't afraid of losing, because somewhere, buried under
layers of doubt, he knew that he couldn't lose Mark. That it wouldn't happen, ever.
When it came down to it, it would be the other way around. Mark was both stable and
stabilizing--two things Mimi and April had never been. *Why couldn't Mark be
a--* Roger stopped himself. If he wasn't mistaken, he was about to say, "Why couldn't
Mark be a girl?" *What the fuck was that supposed to mean?*