Touching a Heart

Most of Roger's withdrawal was a blank place in his memory, which he supposed was a blessing. It was one thing to have Mark fill in the gaps (with stories Roger knew were only half-true), but it would've been nearly unbearable if he had been haunted by images of the beast he had become. Instead, when he pushed himself to think of those days, he could recall only the torture of longing, and a thick wave of pain

One night alone was clear, and strangely it was a night of which Mark had never spoken.

That night was the worst. He'd been without April and aware of his own impending death for nineteen days, and without smack for six. He would've sold his soul for a fix.

Roger had begged Mark to make the pain stop, to just have one more, but when Mark had refused, and only offered him a glass of water instead, Roger had grown violent. Mark wrestled him to the ground on three separate occasions that night. The first time had earned him a black eye, the second time, a bruised rib, and the third, he had limped away with a split lip and a nearly dislocated shoulder. Roger hadn't looked much better, sporting a bloody nose, sprained wrist, a lump just above his temple, and a black eye of his own.

Roger had been so weak he could hardly stand, dizzy from nausea, wracked by tremors, and nearly blind with pain, but the craving had given him impossible strength. Fortunately, Mark had been too determined to let Roger get past him and find a dealer.

When the worst of the craving had passed, and Roger had once more been reduced to a shivering ball, Mark had wrapped his thin arms around his best friend.

Roger remembered marveling how Mark held him together, and managed to keep him from trembling, even when Mark was a good forty pounds lighter than he was.

Which one of us has true strength? He had thought.

"Let's go to the roof."

Roger had been too weak to argue and had allowed Mark to support his weight as they made their way up into the night air. It was just after three in the morning, and the only hour when all of July's heat was finally stolen away by the night.

Mark had said that sometimes you had to see things from another vantage point in order to find peace in the chaos.

Roger had, at first, dismissed this as foolishness, but as they had stood, side by side in the darkness, it became clear that Mark was right.

In that moment, all of New York had been at peace and more importantly, so had Roger.

That had been the beginning of their nightly escapes to the rooftop. Each night, they came and sat, sometimes with laughter, sometimes with silence. They needed these moments, where nothing existed except for the two of them. All of the wounds that had been made to their friendship by Roger's addiction were slowly healed.

But tonight, Roger was alone on the roof. It was well after midnight and Mark had yet to come home. He was probably still out with Maureen.

In fact, he probably wouldn't come home at all tonight, instead choosing to crash with his girlfriend; after all it was their first real date in months. Mark had been too busy helping Roger through recovery to make time for his own pleasures.

Roger was determined not to begrudge Mark his happiness, even if thinking of him with Maureen, made Roger's heart ache, remembering April.

If he wasn't going to be jealous, he at least had to let himself be lonely.

Roger lit up a cigarette, not because he needed one, but because he had nothing better to do. He'd never been much of a smoker, until he had gotten clean, and needed something to give him that high. And, as he hadn't sung for ages, he didn't really care about the havoc it was wrecking on his throat. The guitar was by his side, silent.

Thin plumes of smoke escaped from between his lips, and drifted out into the dusky night.

Mark was right: New York looked different from high up. The neon signs faded to pastel swirls. The rush of cars was a buzz of white noise keeping his thoughts private, even when they overcame him, and he unconsciously spoke them aloud. The city's haze was below him, and only the stars lay above.

He took a long drag off his cigarette and tilted his head back, allowing the smoke to drift out of his lungs instead of exhaling. It always made him feel slightly light-headed.

After April's death, Roger had become very good at pushing people away. Most of his friends had accepted the shove and found ways to avoid him… or "give him space". Benny had found Allison and turned traitor, Collins had taken the job at MIT, and Maureen had moved out.

Only Mark had stayed, even with his girlfriend gone, stubbornly refusing to be forced out of Roger's life.

Until this moment, he hadn't realized how much he had come to rely upon Mark, or how accustomed he had become to the other man's silent, guarding presence beside him on the roof.

He finished off the cigarette and lit another one. Mark didn't let him smoke in the house, and he knew that if he went back inside, he'd sit alone in the dark with his memories.

Which was never good.

The metal rooftop door banged open and Roger whirled around, nearly dropping his cigarette.

Mark stormed onto the roof and walked past Roger to stand at the edge. He thought that if he kept his face turned away, Roger wouldn't notice how his glassed had misted over with tears and his face was flushed. Roger didn't say a word. He smoked in silence, allowing Mark several moments to compose himself.

Finally, Mark stepped away and leaned against the wall, next to Roger. "Can I have one of those?" He gestured to Roger's cigarette.

"You don't smoke." Roger replied, but held out the pack to Mark, nonetheless.

"Do now." Mark spat bitterly, and lit the cigarette off Roger's extended lighter. He took a long, hard drag off the cigarette and exhaled.

"You've done this before." Roger said, when his roommate didn't choke.

"Don't tell me you think I'm just an innocent…naïve…inexperienced…" He trailed off and placed the cigarette between his lips and inhaled again, so the smoke would burn the back of his throat and he wouldn't cry.

Roger didn't say a word, he knew Mark wasn't finished.

"Well, you're wrong, I'm not a fucking idiot. I've been around, I know how things work, I'm not stupid."

Roger tapped ash off the end of the cigarette. He let Mark smoke half his cigarette before he finally spoke. "What did Maureen do?"

Mark clenched his jaw to keep himself from crying. For a second, Roger didn't think the filmmaker was going to answer the question, but then Mark spoke, his voice breaking.

"She fucking cheated," he muttered. "Again."

Roger bit his lip to keep back the classic I told you so. He didn't think Mark would appreciate that particular comment just about now. "Mark, maybe it's time to break it off…"

"She did. This time, she did."

Roger nodded in silence. He stood and laid his guitar to the side, opting to stand next to Mark. The two of them stared out at the cityscape for a while, like they had so many times before, plumes of smoke rising before their faces and marring the image every time they exhaled.

Finally, Roger put a hand on Mark's shoulder. "Sorry, man. I'm sorry. You didn't deserve that."

You really didn't deserve that. It was because of me that this happened; you do the right thing, and you get screwed over.

When Mark didn't say anything, Roger continued. "If it weren't for all my shit…if you hadn't spent all that time me…"

"Shit, Rog, this has nothing to do with that. Things like that happen and it's a part of life to get through it. So don't go feeling all guilty on me, because the only one who did anything wrong was me. I took her back too many times. I forgave her. I was an idiot."

Mark paused. He lowered his cigarette. His eyes were clear and his voice flat.

"You know what she said to me? She said that maybe she'd never really loved me, not that way. Said that I was cute at first. I was awkward, and she found that cute. And we understood each other so well. But as for love…it was never really there. Just sex. And she confessed that the sex wasn't even good to her…I was 'inexperienced'. Shit, do you know how that made me feel?! I wanted to sink into the ground and die, Rog. I still want to. I felt like a fucking kid."

Mark hadn't been able to stop the tears. They ran down his face, even though he tried as hard as he could to blink them back. Roger did have to admit—his best friend looked very young at that moment, his youthful, tear-stained face shrouded in smoke and moonlight.

So I can't take any guilt for this.

And I can't find words to make you feel better.

Well, then…

Roger spasmodically tossed his cigarette off the rooftop, then grabbed Mark's from his hand and did the same.

"What the…?! What the fuck is wrong with you, Roger?!"

"Fuck women!" screamed Roger, his voice echoing into the night.

"Roger, what the hell are you doing—"

"FUCK. WOMEN!"

"Yeah, well, apparently I'm not so good at that," muttered Mark. But Roger could see the corners of the filmmaker's mouth twitching.

Roger ran over to his guitar. He hadn't played it all night, but now he picked it up and ran to stand on top of a concrete block.

Mark rolled his eyes. "Roger, seriously. Whatever you're doing, stop it."

Roger held his guitar in one hand and used the other to cup his mouth, mocking a microphone. "This one's for you, Mark Cohen," he said in his best deep, jazz-crooner voice. "Because you are a sexy beast. You are the sexiest of all sexy men."

Even in the dim, foggy light, Mark's face radiated red.

Roger continued, keeping his laughter in check. He strummed one dissonant chord on the guitar. "Girls who think otherwise? Well, they obviously don't like men."

Mark stared for a moment. His mouth opened and closed. Then, he inexplicably started laughing his ass off.

Roger took this as encouragement. He began to play a few cliché chords, the kind that could be made into any song imaginable. Then, he let his voice, raw from smoking and completely off-key, resonate in the darkness.

"This is a song for you, Maaaark," he sang.

"You and Maureen lost your erratic spaaaark.

So I say, why get down in a funk?

Let's get shit-faced drunk!

Trust the guy you got off her-o-in,

She's probably a les-bi-an…"

Mark started laughing hard again, and Roger was beginning to fear that he was speaking the truth.

"So now it's time for the big guitar finish

Don't you wish you could speak Yiddish?

Oh wait, you're Jewish."

Roger banged on the guitar, bending over it in true rock star form as the last out-of-tune chords rang out. "Fuck women! Fuck women! Fuck women! Fuuuuuck….WOMEN!"

He struck the last note, then swept down in an exaggerated bow.

Mark was sitting cross-legged on the ground. He was laughing even as tears dried on his face. He offered up a weak, one-man wave of applause. "You just made a total ass of yourself," he said.

Roger raised an eyebrow. "You think that's all the ass-making potential I have tonight?"

"Stay here, Mark. Don't move."

Roger ran across the length of the rooftop and out through the door. As he made his way through the reverberating stairwells and down to the loft, images flashed through his mind.

He thought of Mark with a split lip and nearly dislocated shoulder, holding a shivering heroin addict.

He thought of himself, belting out the worst song in history on a rooftop.

The things we do for each other.

If there was ever a complete friendship, it was theirs.

--

Three and a half hours later, Mark and Roger were still on the rooftop, well into the early morning. They had gone through a completely drunk phase, since Roger had emerged from his excursion to the loft with all that remained of their vodka.

Roger had spent a good hour on a rampage against women. He had gone to every young woman's apartment on their floor, knocked obnoxiously on the door until they answered in their pajamas, and screamed "FUCK YOU!" in their faces. Mark had gotten every single one on film.

Now, they were back here, buzzed and content. Both were laughing. Mark had confirmed Roger's fears—Maureen had left him for another woman. Earlier in the night, this fact would've sent Mark back into his shell of misery and embarrassment. Now, however, they were laughing the situation away, letting it slip into obscurity along with the night.

Mark's giddy laughter was dying down. Soon, it became a serene smile. The filmmaker leaned forward onto his knees, a near-empty bottle dangling in his hand.

"Let's just stay out here til the sun rises," said Mark.

"Sure," said Roger with a shrug. The songwriter was sprawled out next to Mark, propped up on his elbows. "Why the hell not?"

Mark heaved a deep sigh. "You know, this was all set up to be one of the worst nights of my life. You completely screwed it up."

"Oh, I screwed your night up? Here I was, set to have a peaceful night of thinking and smoking, when you storm in with your sob story."

Mark smiled at Roger. He knocked the bottle into the songwriter's leg. "Thanks, man."

"Fuck women."

"Fuck women. Even if you're no good at it."

They raised their two hollow bottles and toasted. It wasn't long before the sun started a slow, golden ascent, a beautiful phenomenon they watched in perfect silence.

Roger didn't need the haunting memories of April. Mark didn't need Maureen.

They only needed each other; they only needed this moment.

--

A friend is someone who reaches out for your hand...

and touches your heart.