Disclaimer: Rent is Jonathan Larson's.
"Hey."
He's still sleeping on the couch, his back curled out towards the room, his face pressed into the cushions. He's sleeping loudly, not quite talking, not quite snoring, making muttering noises that are almost words. I hear the drool bubble out.
"Hey," I repeat, giving his shoulder a shake. "Get up, sleepyhead."
He presses closer to the cushions. "No-o-o," he whimpers.
I like how my hand looks when I reach out, my fingers long and spindly, cold-looking, and the shimmery green painted messily onto my fingernails. I flick Roger's earlobe. He yelps. "Oww!" And he sits up, rubbing his ear. I laugh. "You're a bitch, Maureen."
"Common opinion," I say, and I dangle a white plastic bag in front of his face. The aroma of take-away wontons and curry stuffs Roger's nose. He'll behave like a half-trained puppy, except that Roger, unlike the puppy, knows not to go tinkle on the couch or he's on the curb.
I let him snatch the bag out of my hands. He pulls a box of wontons onto his lap and massacres the first two. His eyes are fixed on the food, not in an escapist fixation at all. Roger doesn't love the food because it makes him feel good or because for half a second, when a burst of grease and pork and soy sauce and water chestnuts explodes on his tongue, the sensation of taste overwhelms and he forgets everything else.
Roger just loves to eat. It's a trait I've always admired in boys.
"Waa-un?" Roger says, holding up the box. I don't know if he said "Want one" or "Wonton". Either way, I take a wonton, nibble the edge and flop down next to Roger. "How was r'hearsal?" he asks, popping open a container of yellow curry.
I don't tell Roger that my co-boy—costar? Doesn't he wish, but there's no co-stars. There's stars, and there's satellites—anyway that my co-boy has been goosing me all week, and tonight I let him put his hand inside my lace panties.
It doesn't count when Joanne's away.
"It went good. I know my lines." I bite into that grease-pork-chestnut-soy sauce taste, and that's when I catch sight of Roger's tongue. "Jesus! Roger, what the hell happened, honey?" His tongue looks spongy. It's getting a little better, recovering, but it looks painful. "How…?"
"Salted milk." Roger doesn't lie to me. Roger never lies, not to me, anyway. "I drank salted milk," he says.
I ask him the obvious question. My stomach shrivels. Roger won't answer my question. Then I realize what else is salty and milky. Ew. I get a couple beers from the kitchen and pop the tops off on my teeth. Another habit I break when Jo comes home.
"Roger, will you tell me why?" I ask. "I mean, Mark's not a bad guy."
"Is that what I deserve?" he asks, dreary. "Not bad?"
"No, I just want to know why." He owes me that at least, since he's spent the past two days sleeping on my couch. Always sleeping, like this is all a bad dream. Maybe the next time he wakes, he'll be at home between the sheets. Maybe his boyfriend's fuzzy leghair will be tickling him when he comes to.
Mark's feet are always cold and he kicks in his sleep.
Roger sips stewed coconut milk and spices and a slip of bamboo shoot off a deep plastic spoon. I tip some beer into my mouth and say, "It's pretty obvious that you love him."
Roger shrugs his shoulders. He loves Mark, and he knows he loves Mark. He's known since he knocked on my door two days ago, pounding with his fist until I opened, holding a blanket around my body because even though he's seen them, I didn't want Roger to see my tits. His face was rubbed raw, how it looks when he hasn't been crying or hasn't stopped, and he had didn't have any clothes but what he was wearing. He needed a shave, something he would get later with Joanne's razor. Another secret, another habit. He needed to comb his hair.
But Roger wasn't drunk or high. He looked at me, totally coherent, and he said, "Please, Mo: I'm under the cart."
Since then, Roger's told me how he left Mark. He's told me it wouldn't be permanent, he hopes, he doesn't know. He's told me everything, but he hasn't told me why.
"I can't," he says.
"You should go back to him," I say. "At least call him."
Roger shakes his head.
"He knows where you are."
"What?" Roger sounds betrayed.
I shrug. "He was scared for you. I told him you were here." I want to ask what happened, again, but I know Roger won't answer me. I have a lot of habits I break when Joanne comes home—beer bottles on the teeth, handjobs, letting Roger shave with her razor. Roger just runs away. But he never lets anything go. He still remembers when I pissed his bed when I was five years old.
"Roger, you should go back. Or let him come to you. Either way." I shrug. "You two belong together."
Roger scoffs. "Yeah," he says. "You'd know, Mo."
"Hey," I say, slapping him one on the shoulder. "Those who can't do, Davis."
the end