Thunder rumbled outside. Sheets of rain pounded furiously down the slanted windowpanes, reducing the view of the urban landscape to a hazy blur of color.
Mark sat at one end of the old couch, lightly drumming his fingers on the tattered armrest. A hollow-eyed Mimi was curled up on the other side, clasping an egg timer in her thin fingers.
Mark wished something would happen. Anything just to break this awful silence.
How did I get here? How the hell?
Had everything changed so rapidly in the course of just three weeks? It had all happened so fast. Roger and Mimi's fighting had suddenly grown more and more intense over the course of several days. His claims of strange behavior on her part had soon grown to outright accusations of cheating and drug use. Her denials were especially frenzied and agitated. After three long days of screams and tears and anger, Roger had stuffed some clothes in a duffel bag and left for the bus station, leaving his friends and the bleary-eyed dancer behind.
Mark, believing this latest development to be just another in the long line of Roger Davis Mood Swings™, was a bit perplexed at Mimi's behavior. She was miserable, and not just in an 'I'm-going-through-a-rough-patch-with-my-boyfriend' sort of way. She looked beaten into submission, distracted and lost and stressed, struggling under the weight of some unknown burden. Mark didn't want to admit it, but she did seem different. He kept quiet, though, hesitant to poke into what was obviously a private matter.
The next week had been St. Patrick's Day, and so the rest of the group—sans Roger—had gathered to celebrate. As per usual, the holiday featured copious amounts of alcohol. Sometime after dark, Collins, Joanne, and Maureen were passed out in various locations throughout the apartment. Mark, more than a little buzzed himself, was trying to clean up the mess of bottles, cans, and cups that now littered the loft.
Mimi, who'd spent the evening quietly nursing a Coke, got up to help. She made her way slowly around the room, stepping around her dozing friends, with a trash bag that filled rapidly. After several minutes, she spoke, her voice hoarse.
"Mark, I wanted you to know…I'm not using. And I didn't cheat."
She'd been so silent all night that Mark, tipsy as he was, thought it might have been his alcohol-ravaged brain playing tricks on him. The next four words out of her mouth, however, sobered him up immediately.
"I think I'm pregnant."
Without another word, she handed him the bag of trash and shuffled out of the apartment.
---
They hadn't spoken any more on the subject for two weeks. Mark had watched her a little more closely, making sure that she was eating and taking care of herself. But no more conversation had taken place.
Until tonight.
Now three weeks and counting without so much as a word from Roger, Mark had been in the middle of his dinner of cold pizza and tea when a soft knock sounded at the door.
Mark crossed the room and pulled open the door, revealing an anxious-looking Mimi clutching a small bag.
"Is anyone else here?" she asked after a moment, glancing around the room as if undercover.
"No…what's the…?"
"I finally got a test." she indicated the plastic bag. "I just…I was hoping that…you'd stay here with me. While I took it." She looked up at him, gnawing on her lower lip, eyes pleading.
"Well, I…" Mark stalled momentarily, unsure if he really wanted to involve himself in this situation. But the look on her face was plain: he was her only hope. Otherwise, she'd find herself completely on her own…again. He relented then, smiling gently. "Yeah. Sure." He nodded toward the bathroom. "Go ahead."
---
And so here they were. Mimi gazed at the timer Mark had dug up for her when she'd emerged from the bathroom.
Three minutes, she'd said. It felt like it had been a half-hour. Mark wanted to offer some words of support and encouragement, but didn't know what to say. Nothing seemed right.
So they continued to sit, an uneasy silence pervading the room.
Ding.
Mimi jumped a little, startled by the sudden noise. Mark also snapped to attention. For a moment, the pair just stared at each other. Mimi gave him a tight, nervous smile.
"You want me to go in there with…?" he offered softly.
Mimi shook her head. "Nah…I got it." After a split second's hesitation, she stood, took a deep breath, and crossed to the bathroom.
Mark was alone then, his only company the pounding of the rain on the roof. He glanced around the barebones loft, his eyes finally settling on the bathroom door, open just a crack. He focused his attention there, waiting for her to emerge. After several moments, she wandered out, white stick in one hand, cardboard box in the other. She stared back and forth between the instructions and the test, her face blank.
He said nothing, just watched her. And when she glanced up to meet his eyes, she looked like a deer in the headlights. Mark knew even before she nodded weakly in confirmation.
At that moment, Mark noticed for the first time how young she truly looked. He saw the terror gathering in her eyes as the truth and its implications sank in.
And then Mark knew what she needed. It wasn't words of comfort or reassurance. He, too, stood. Traversing the room, he took Mimi into his arms just as her tears began to fall. She clutched at him like a lifeline, sobbing into his t-shirt.
As the thunder crashed around them, he continued to hold her without judgment or anger or accusation. He was neither the jealous, passionate boyfriend nor the devastated, disappointed parent. He was simply a comfort to a lost friend, a source of strength, and a shelter from the storm.