"Roger? Mimi?"
Mark Cohen shouted as he entered the loft, flinging his backpack and jacket on the couch and gently placing his camera on the table.
"Anyone home?"
It was about 2 a.m. and he had assumed someone would be home by now. Mimi had a rare night off and Roger and his newly reformed band, The Well Hungarians, had a "gig," but it should have ended an hour ago at the latest. He wasn't usually home this late (early?), but Alexi had kept him to edit the newest Buzzline segment? 'Grandparents and S&M: When is it to much to handle?'
Mark trudged through the dark towards his room; no use in turning on the lights and raising the electric bill. Passing the slightly ajar door of the bathroom, he noticed that someone had left the dim light on. That's when he heard a crash.
Memories of finding April flooded his mind. Her body in the bathtub, the post-it note stuck to the mirror, the color red… Suppressing the horribly vivid images, Mark pushed open the door only to find his roommates girlfriend scrambling to pick up several shampoo bottles off of the floor.
"Oh my God, Mimi, I thought that maybe Roger had…or maybe you had..," he trailed off. Mimi spun around, hand clutching her chest.
"Jesus, Mark. Are you trying to kill me?" Her eyes widened. "Is Rog home too?"
"Um…no. At least, I don't think so."
"Thank God." There was a moment of awkward silence. "So, was there a reason you burst in on me in the bathroom?"
Mark blushed. "It's not important."
"Well then, I think I've got everything under control in here," she grinned. "You can go now."
"Right. Sorry Meems. Night." As the filmmaker turned to leave, his gaze was caught on a white stick resting precariously on the rusting sink.
"Don't. Say. Anything."
Swallowing the lump that suddenly formed in his throat, Mark quietly turned around. "Are you—"
"I don't know yet." Slumping down onto the closed toilet seat, Mimi placed her head in her hands.
"What am I gonna do? I can't take care of a baby."
Awkwardly taking a seat on the side of the bathtub, Mark rubbed his hands together carefully choosing his next words.
"You know Roger would support you Meems. It is Roger's, right?"
"Of course it is!" Mark had the decency to look sheepish, as a blush crept over his cheeks
The two sat in the dim light of the bathroom in silence, Mimi checking her watch (a long ago gift from Benny) every few seconds, Mark shifting uncomfortably, until Mimi softly spoke.
"I've always wanted kids. Until Roger, though, I didn't think I'd ever found the best prospect." She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes Mark noted sadly.
"I've had this perfect family in my head for so long…we'd have a little boy. We'd name him Jonathan and he would be an attractive blend of the two of us. When he got old enough, Rog would teach him guitar and I'd be the perfect Mom. Every morning I'd make sure he had a good breakfast, like pancakes with smiley faces on them, before sending him off to school. Rog and I would kiss him, tell him how much we loved him everyday—so he'd never forget."
Mimi glanced at her watch again before continuing.
"Rog would give him advice on girls and I'd make a fuss over him on prom and graduation," she sighed, wiping away a few tears that had escaped.
Mark said nothing.
"That perfect family can't happen I know that. I understand it, but it still hurts," she nervously began twirling a strand of dark hair. "Me and Rog have, ya know, talked about it before, but we couldn't bare the thought of putting an innocent kid through our…problem." Mimi stole another look at her watch before standing up.
"Rog would make a great Dad, though"
"You'd make a great Mom too, Meems," Mark stated, finally finding his voice. "I'm sorry," his voice cracked midway through and he silently cursed himself.
Seemingly ignoring him, Mimi picked up the white stick and finally got her answer. Mark was sure there was no way she couldn't hear his heart beating and pulse quickening in nervous anticipation.
"There's no need to be sorry," Mimi explained dropping the test into the waste basket. "There's nothing to be sorry about."
The filmmaker opened his mouth to say something, anything, when he realized he had nothing to say. Instead, he walked over to the girl, no, young woman, he had grown to love like a sister and pulled her into his arms in a warm embrace. How long they stayed like that both were unsure, but they broke apart when the door to the loft slammed shut.
A few moments later Roger Davis appeared in the doorway.
"What's goin' on?" The musician questioned his voice more gruff than usual. It wasn't every day he came home to find his girlfriend and best friend standing in the bathroom trying to look innocent and failing miserably.
"Nothing, babe. I had something in my eye and Mark was trying to see what it was."
Roger gazed pointedly at his best friend; eyebrows raised silently asking for the truth. Roger Davis was not a dumb-ass; he knew when he was being played.
"All clear Meems," Mark mumbled. Roger knew he sucked at lying; he was going to see right through him. "Next time, make sure you get all of the glitter off your face and out of your hair so you won't have to get me up at 2 a.m."
Tactfully changing the subject, Mimi wrapped her arms around her boyfriends' waist.
"Sooo, how were The Well Hungarians tonight?"
"Well hung, as usual."
"Roger!" Mimi giggled, jabbing him in the stomach.
"Come on rock star let's go to bed." Interlocking their hands Mimi pulled the slightly confused Roger out of the bathroom.
Sighing, Mark looked over at the waste basket. Making a decision, he picked up the evidence and put it in his back pocket. He headed towards the front door. There was no use in Roger knowing the truth. He never took out the garbage anyway, so the chance of him ever finding the white stick in the dumpster behind the loft was extremely slim.
Whirling around at the touch of a hand on his shoulder, his jacket hanging off of one arm, he was surprised to find the person he was protecting.
"Thanks Markie," giving him a sound kiss, Mimi turned on her heel and returned to Roger's room, shutting the door behind her.
The filmmaker stood, frozen in place for a few minutes, lost in thought. Checking his back pocket one final time for the offending object, Mark sighed for what he thought was the millionth time in the past fifteen minutes.
Life was so unfair.