Mark collapsed onto his bed in exhaustion, sighing slowly. He had spentthe entire day helping Maureen move from her apartment into the loft he sharedwith Roger and whoever else was currently in need of a place to sleep. Hehad been amazed at how much stuff she had, clothes and books and photo albumsand trinkets. The boxes had piled up steadily all day against the singlewall that partially divided Mark's bedroom from the rest of the loft. Mark grabbed a pillow and rested his head against it as he gazed out ofthe window and listened to the running water of Maureen's shower. Shebegan to sing, and he laughed softly.
Suddenly, he missed April. It would always come on like this, out ofnowhere, this suffocating feeling of sadness and loneliness where he would seeher face in his head. He never knew when to expect it, and it always hurtso badly. Mark squeezed his eyes shut, thinking of how she used to sneakup behind him and hug him when he least expected and most needed it. Ifshe were here now, that's what she would do. He would be laying down,looking out of the window, when he would suddenly feel her plop down beside himand wrap her arms around him. She would rest her chin on his chest andlook at him searchingly.
"What are you thinking Mark?" she would ask. She always really wanted toknow too, and he usually told her. Or she would see that look in hiseyes, the one that said that he didn't want to talk about it. Then shewould just smile and kiss him before leaving to make the coffee or scoop theice-cream that would be ready for him whenever he did.
Mark shook his head, trying to clear the memories. Thinking about Aprilonly made his mind work in circles, each one harder and more painful than thelast. Besides, he shouldn't be thinking about her now. He shouldn'tbe thinking about the relationship he had lost, or the one he would never beable to have. Not with Maureen singing ten feet away, not with herclothes in his closet and her memories in boxes beside his bed. He lovedMaureen. At least he thought he did. Mark wasn't quite sure whatlove was supposed to be anymore, but he knew that she had become one of themost important people in his life and he knew that he caught his breath everytime he saw her. She was completely intoxicating, and he had never feltthe way he felt around her with anyone else. Yet even as they becameostensibly closer he felt her slipping away, dancing right out of his clutchingfingertips. Maybe thinking about April was some kind of sick reflex,substituting someone he had already lost for someone he knew he was losing.
Maureen walked into the bedroom at that moment, a towel clutched around herbody, her hair wild and dripping, her cheeks flushed from the heat of theshower. She smiled at him, and Mark was sure that she had never lookedmore beautiful. He stood, and she leaned over to kiss him.
"Hi," she said.
He laughed. "Hi. I'm going to go make some coffee. Roger should behome any time now."
She pulled away from him. "Okay," she said quickly, turning to search forher clothes in Mark's closet. "I'll just be a minute."
Mark turned and left the room, headed for the over-utilized coffee maker intheir tiny kitchen. The tension between himself and Maureen had surfacedeven today. It seemed to happen more frequently the longer they knew eachother, and Mark had no idea where it was coming from. He could feel herdistancing herself from him, from this relationship, more with every passingday. Though he wouldn't admit it to himself, he knew it was only a matterof time before she realized that moving into the loft wouldn't fix whateverproblems they had. Maureen had already cheated on him twice, that he knewof, and he knew that whatever he had to offer wouldn't hold her much longer. She was too beautiful, too wild, too irresistible. Neither of themhad ever imagined that they would end up with someone like the other; theirsudden whirlwind romance had caught them both off guard.
She was sitting with a friend at an outdoor café, drinking and laughing. Mark frequented cafés like that, because he could sit outside with a cupof coffee for hours and watch people walk by. People were fascinating towatch if you knew how and learning how to see people improved his films. Sometimes he filmed people that interested him, people with a story ontheir face or in their eyes. He didn't film Maureen though, despite thefact that she had instantly fascinated him. He wanted to see her throughhis own eyes, instead of through his lens.
She noticed him watching her, and after the second time she caught his eye shesmiled. Something about him interested her. Normally, he was not atall her type, but there was something in the quiet kind of intensity in hiseyes had made her take notice of someone that she probably wouldn't haveglanced at twice. When he stopped averting his eyes in quick denial whenshe looked over at him, she stood and joined him at his table. There wasa shyness, an awkwardness, to him that immediately endeared him to her. She would have never thought that she would find awkwardness attractive,but that vulnerability coupled with the force of the thoughts she could seebehind his warm blue eyes made her wish fervently that she could be the one todraw him out.
Mark looked up from the coffee maker in surprise when he heard the door slambehind him. He turned to see Roger throw his jacket down on a side tablein obvious frustration.
"Hey," Mark said.
Roger spun to face Mark and pushed his fingers through his hair, a frequenthabit of his.
"Hi Mark," he replied absently.
"What's going on?" Mark asked, gesturing for Roger to have a seat. Hebrought Roger his old red mug, his coffee black except for sugar.
"It's nothing," Roger said as Mark sat down beside him. "Just the band. Idon't know... I get really sick of their shit sometimes."
Mark only nodded as Roger took a long, slow drink of coffee. Roger's bandmates were not the easiest people in the world to get along with, and Roger -for all of his tough exterior - was surprisingly sensitive. The last yearor so had been really hard on him especially, though he would never admit it. He didn't speak for almost two weeks after April died and he didn't leavethe loft for two months, not even to go to the funeral. Then all of asudden he began going out again, throwing himself into the band and God onlyknows what else. Most nights he didn't come home until hours after hethought Mark was asleep. But Mark didn't sleep; he lay in his bed everynight staring up at the ceiling. It wasn't until he heard Roger deadboltthe door that he could close his eyes.
"Do you want to talk about it?" Mark asked.
"No."
"Okay," he responded. He hadn't expected Roger to, though he wished Rogerwould open up to him more, the way he used to. Mark fixed his eyes onRoger's profile as Roger stared down at his calloused musician's fingers,clenching and unclenching them in agitation. His features were strong anddefiant, but the turmoil in his smoky green eyes gave him away. He hadalways tried to be the tough, unaffected rock star, but his eyes gave away hissensitivity and idealism every time.
"Where's Maureen?" he finally asked to fill the silence. "Is she moved in?"
"Yeah, took us all day. I never realized what a pack-rat she is," Markreplied. "She's in the other room getting dressed."
Actually, Maureen was standing behind where Mark and Roger were sitting,watching them from the doorway of Mark's bedroom. She had been ever sinceRoger came in, watching them and puzzling over their relationship as she haddone many times before. It was a bond unlike one she had ever seen andtrying to understand it only confused her. For two adults, they werealmost impossibly close and dependent on one another. The way Markbrought Roger his coffee, the way they sat and how they talked, the way thatMark stared at Roger when Roger's attention was elsewhere; it was always thesame, like seeing a re-run of the same television show for the twentieth time.
"Hi boys," she said, walking toward where they were sitting. Mark stoodwith a smile and kissed her. As he went to retrieve her cup of coffee,Maureen sat down in a chair across from Roger. He looked up and greetedher quietly, only glancing into her eyes for a moment before turning hisattention back to his hands. She and Roger were not quite at ease witheach other yet. She fussed with her hair until Mark returned.
"I don't suppose you talked to Collins today?" Mark asked Roger as he returnedto his spot beside Roger on the couch.
"Oh yeah, I was meaning to tell you," Roger replied. "He came and found me atrehearsal, wanted me to tell you that he's staying with some friends in Chelseatonight. He said they were going to 'shake up the establishment' orsomething tomorrow."
"I figured he had found somewhere else to stay for tonight, but I didn't knowfor sure..."
Maureen sat silently as Mark and Roger talked. She always felt like anintruder whenever Roger was around, like she was trespassing. It wasn'tuntil they had all said goodnight and she was lying in bed beside Mark that shefelt like she had the right to be there.
Long after Maureen's breathing slowed and she fell asleep, Mark lay beside her,his arms around her, listening to Roger strumming his guitar softly on theother side of the wall. He was struggling. The notes trippedawkwardly off of his fingers as he tried to pick out a melody Mark hadn't heardbefore. Roger hadn't written anything new since April died.
"Mark?"
Mark rolled over and opened his eyes drowsily. April was standing besidehis bed in a white nightgown, looking down at him. Her hair was loosearound her face and with the light from a street lamp outside behind her, shelooked like an angel.
"Yeah?" he whispered. He knew what she was going to say; this wasn't anuncommon occurrence.
She bit her lip. "Do you mind if I sleep with you for a little while? Roger and I had a fight; I don't think he wants me around right now."
He only nodded and lifted the covers for her. She slipped underneath thesheets and curled up beside him.
"Thanks Mark," she said softly as he wrapped his arms around her.
"Mmhm," he murmured, his eyes drifting closed. She ran her fingers softlyover his chest in that soothing, unconscious way of hers. In truth, healmost looked forward to the nights when they fought, as guilty as it made himfeel. One or the other of them invariably came to him for comfort orvalidation.
"Tell me about your new film," she said. He knew she was trying to keepfrom crying, so he told her in detail about the documentary he had been workingon. She always made sure to ask him things like that, about his films orhis family or his plans, and even when she was doing it to distract herselffrom a fight with Roger, she really listened.
After he had explained every shot and camera angle to her, she laughed quietly.
"I'm sorry I keep doing this to you Mark," she said. "You must be positivelysleep deprived by now."
"Well, my beauty rest is very important," he murmured, "but not as much as youare."
"You are beautiful," she returned, propping herself up on her elbows tokiss him softly.
They both paused as they heard the sound of Roger's guitar drifting in from theother room.
"He's upset," Mark said.
She sighed. "I guess I should go talk to him. Thanks Mark, I don'tknow what I would do --"
Mark was jarred back to the present by the sound of Roger throwing his guitarviolently into it's case. It was a relief in a way, not to have to listento Roger struggle anymore. There was something inside of Roger that wasslowly strangling him, and Mark couldn't do anything to help, no matter howmuch he wanted to. He realized this, but he carefully disentangledhimself from Maureen's arms anyway and walked into the living room to talk tohim. Roger was by the door, fully dressed, pulling on his jacket.
"Hey," Mark said, rubbing his eyes. "Where are you going?"
Roger turned in surprise to see his small friend leaning against the kitchencounter, his eyes drowsy and each of his hairs fighting to stick up in adifferent direction. His expression was one of pure concern though, andRoger knew that Mark had been awake this whole time again, listening for him tomake sure he was alright.
"I don't know," Roger replied. "Out."
Mark nodded. He was scared of what might happen to Roger, scared of whathe might do to himself, but there was nothing he could do to stop him. Maybe it would even be good for him, maybe it helped him let go of whathad happened.
"Okay," Mark said. "Wake me up when you come home?"
"Sure."
Mark looked at him sadly, hoping that Roger couldn't see the desperation hefelt. Roger must have gotten some sense of it, however, because hisexpression softened and he paused with his hand on the doorknob.
"I'll be fine," he said softly. "Get some sleep Mark."
A moment later the door closed behind him.