"Oh, fuck it."
Roger threw his guitar aside. Well- he almost threw it, but caught himself at the last second and gently, lovingly, placed it aside.
It was the song again, his numb fingers were still searching for the chords and the calluses were beginning to form again. He hadn't entirely gone back to playing how he once did.
I'm not entirely sure why I'm still watching him, narrating in the back of my mind these everyday events. I watch him sit, looking lost (feeling lost), before slowly picking the guitar up and trying again to loose himself in music.
I try to convince myself that this is better than his withdrawal—and in a way it is. He isn't throwing up, acting crazy, requiring constant care. But he's still withdrawing from the world, trying again and again to buoy himself back up with music. He's using music to help him stay alive as long as he can. He's trying, but we all know what'll happen.
He's going to die.
I say this, but I can't believe it. I can't wrap my mind around even the possibility of him leaving. My rational mind knows that this will eventually have to end, but it doesn't seem probable, possible. I don't know how I can survive with out him, and he knows it.
But that doesn't seem to matter, because my devotion is worthless if he doesn't want it. He wants April back. He wants Mimi. He wants the love, the protection of his girlfriends, former girlfriends, DEAD girlfriends, but not me (his roommate, his friend, his would-be lover—if he'd let me, if only he'd let me).
I told him after he broke up with Mimi, after she left, when he started to withdraw again. He laughed at me, "Oh come on, Mark, I'm not that desperate. Thanks for trying to cheer me up." But he knew, it was his way of saying no without the shattered egos. And so he's still sad, I'm still plagued with this bullshit unrequited love. Or whatever it is.
He's stopped playing again, this time not angrily, but with a sense of completion. He turns around, seeing me contemplating, staring at him.
"Hi Mark"
"Hi Roger"
"what's up?"
"nothing much. Just thinking about stuff. You?"
"working on my song."
"yeah."
We pause. We stare at each other. I try to send signals through my eyes, 'I love you, Roger. Come over here. Fuck me, right now, on the chair. Or actually, on the floor—the chair would just end up hurting.'
He does get up, he walks over to where I am. He opens his mouth to speak, to tell me he loves me, to express his undying devotion to me.
"Do we have any food in the apartment?"
"No."
"Oh. I'll go out and get some then. Be back in a bit."
He leaves. And it really does make sense.
Because in real life—you don't actually get the guy.