A/N: I recently read an excellent book called The Post-Birthday World by Lionel Shriver. It's a little Sliding Doors, showing two possible futures generated from a single decision. The parallels and repetitions of dialogue in different contexts fascinated me, and got me thinking about parallels in our own beloved RENT... and so I bring you this! :D Be warned: it gets very, very bitter.

...

They met in alleyways, in shady bars, even a few times in the dressing rooms at the Cat Scratch. And she always felt guilty, of course; although the pleasure she derived from her dalliances slightly outweighed the feeling of shame that overtook her when she returned to Roger, head bowed apologetically, and mumbled something about meeting her mother, or running errands for a flu-stricken Maureen and Joanne. Usually her lies even contained some truth: Joanne had once called her apartment and asked her to pick up some aspirin on her way to work. Was it her fault that The Man's main hangout was so close to the nearest drugstore?

Yet each time the needle sank into her skin, Mimi couldn't help but feel anguished at how well she managed to deceive Roger. He wanted so badly for things to work between them – in every spontaneous bouquet of flowers or passionate kiss lingered the spectre of April. Roger refused to let his relationship with Mimi follow the same path.

And Mimi wanted things to work out too. She really did. She just needed a little extra sustenance besides Roger's romantic gestures. No amount of rose petals strewn across the bedroom floor could make her forget the singular sensation of a sweating, pushing-fifty, balding businessman's fingers slipping a creased bill into her underwear. Mimi needed to get high just to get home from work without bursting into angry, degraded tears.

But since Roger, the high had never been as sweet. Every time she let the needle slip from her fingers and her mind slip into oblivion, Roger's eyes floated before her, hurt and accusing and angry.

They met in alleyways, in shady bars, strip clubs, sometimes even outside his office. And he always felt guilty, of course; although the satisfaction he derived from his dalliances slightly outweighed the feeling of shame that overtook him each time her returned to Alison, head bowed apologetically, and excused himself with stories of meeting a client, or having to plead with the electricity company on behalf of Mark and Roger again. The stories were so usual, constructed so carefully from the truth, that Alison accepted them without question. Sometimes he even simply omitted details rather than outright lying. Was it his fault that clients occasionally insisted on adjourning to the Cat Scratch Club after a meeting?

Yet each time the opened the door of another seedy hotel room, Benny couldn't help but feel a little ashamed at how well he managed to fool Alison. She wanted so badly for their marriage to be happy, and not just for their own sakes –in every lovingly prepared dinner or expensive suit lingered the shadow of her family, who despite priding themselves on their non-conservatism, still harboured a buried, inbred resentment of the fact that their daughter had married a black man.

And Benny wanted things to work out too. He really did. He just needed a little extra… sustenance besides Alison's loving, yet safe and habitual, affection. No amount of shoulder massages could make him forget his longing for the days before he "sold out", when he deigned to be seen in public looking less than a million dollars, when life had been uncertain and therefore dangerous and exciting. Benney needed something to remind him of how life could be, and if mindless sex was what did it, he would be the last to complain.

But since he and Alison had married, his conquests had never seemed as sweet. Every time he let himself slip between the legs of another nameless hooker, Alison's face floated before him, hurt and accusing and defeated.

...

Reviews are nice.