"So how'd it go?" Asks Maureen from the fire escape four hours later.

Maybe because I was thrown into an overly disapproving mood this morning, or maybe just because sometimes I'm hopelessly romantic (I was dealing with a wedding…) Maureen's tone disappoints me. Maureen is a girl. She is supposed to be in a sappy, airy uproar. Isn't that what happens when girls and weddings collide? Would it be so hard for her to throw herself down the stairs into my arms and make puppy eyes and ask nit-picky details about Allison's dress and the cost of the caterers and is Benny nervous and did he run through his vows with you and is his heart aflutter? She's supposed to clasp her hands under her chin and bat her eyes at me and imply marriage without exactly implying our relationship specifically, and then I'm supposed to frown and feel diffident for the next few weeks, and ponder a lot, and get cold feet for no rational reason, and have hesitant-yet-fulfilling sex, and listen to her twitter on about how excited she is. Right? I am not supposed to squint, with the sun in my eyes, four stories up and broadcast to a lethargic-sounding Maureen (as well as the entire block) how stylishly my five thousand dollar tuxedo fits.

"It went…great."

"Psh. Well you sound enthused." …That's ironic.

I roll my eyes. "Are you home for the night?"

She checks over her shoulder and shrugs. "I guess. Why?"

"I don't know. Want to do something? I'll buy you dinner." I attempt a charismatic grin.

"Ooh..." Maureen winces. "I'm making macaroni and cheese." She points into the loft.

"So?"

"So I'm making macaroni and cheese Mark. I can't. I already boiled the noodles."

I really hope she's joking. Although I doubt she is and my heart sinks. "Oh. Okay… Well, do you want to go for a walk later or something? I want to tell you about it."

"A walk?- Collins stop it! Find your own cheese packet!" Maureen vanishes from the balcony, angrily shaking a wooden spoon. However, she is giggling and I feel less apprehensive about going upstairs. I honestly thought she was taking her pasta preparation seriously.

Benny dropped me off in front of the building with my tuxedo freshly tailored and zipped in an airtight plastic sleeve. I am afraid to even drape the thing over my arm, lest I cause the whole networking of seams and Allison's graciousness to implode with a single crease. So I dangle it insecurely from the hanger and escort it up the stairs. I hold it defensively behind me as I slide open the door. It is uncanny how three inhabitants of the apartment are absent, and yet the remaining two make enough noise, if not more, to represent all of them.

Collins is delighting in creating mischief with a six-inch packet of liquid cheddar. Maureen is vengefully beating him with her spoon. The lid covering the pot of unattended macaroni rattles and steams over an open flame. I fear for the three-piece swinging from my finger.

I play the sensible middleman and sigh from the doorway, "Collins? Why do you need that?"

"I like wooden spooning!"

…How do you respond to that?

"…Collins, Maureen is trying to cook. Don't make it harder than it already is for her, please."

"Mark, you little bitch!"

Hell hath no fury like a woman wielding a kitchen utensil.

"My tuxedo- is very- expensive!" I warn between smacks on the buttocks. "Lemme hang it up!"

I escape behind our bedroom door just as the smoke alarm screams at Collins for gargling a mouthful of Velveeta. I tuck the suit behind all my other clothes, closest to the mothballs and away from light or sound and out of sight. As far as I'm concerned, that tuxedo doesn't exist until the day of the wedding. I certainly don't have five grand to insure that it will remain nonexistent…

I grab my camera off the bedside table and film the haphazard splatters of orange goop spit onto the kitchen walls, and Maureen, as she toils over a soaking stovetop with a dishtowel. Trying and failing to bend over and mop at the floor, her efforts are met with a stinging pat on the butt cheek with the flat end of the spoon.

"Mark!" She squeals. "Stop filming and beat his ass!"

"Literally? He'll kill me…" To be safe I take a few steps back. "Besides. I don't have a spoon." Collins is grinning with the impudence of a five-year-old and circling- bobbing in and out of the shot- with the prowess of a hungry lion. He ducks and disappears. "I DON'T HAVE A SPOON!!!" I remind him, although this is an ineffectual cry because he was going to pounce regardless. "Maureen, stop wiping stuff and beat his ass-!"

"Sissy!" Collins cuts me off, tackling my legs, unseen from beneath the camera. I am slammed against the breakfast bar and pinned.

"…Mark?"

"…Yes Collins?"

"Put the camera on the counter or I will drown your girlfriend with the rest of this cheese."

"Oh God, no!"

"Put it-"

"Can we talk this over?"

"Not at all."

"Oh!" Maureen wails, pressing the back of her hand to her forehead like a damsel in distress. "Mark! Oh God! Don't hurt him!"

"Alright." My muscles tense and I inhale staunchly. "I will do…what I must." The one-armed constriction around my knees lessens, and I swivel and gently drop the camera onto its side, carefully propped next to the fruit bowl. Putting my hands up, I face my doom.

"Thank you." Collins winks. There is a second or two of dead silence between Collins rising to his feet and Collins flinging me by the waist over his shoulder and…beating my ass with Maureen's spoon. The smoke alarm bleeps and whistles incessantly. My screaming for mercy is lost on the gigantic spanking machine, but my kicking, in collaboration with a brutal, linebacker-worthy tackle from the cook manages to knock Collins off of his feet and headfirst onto the couch. He is not totally defeated until after he deposits a soggy, cheesy-lipped kiss on my cheek and Roger swaggers torpidly through the open door.

Roger stumbles into the living room, fastening his hands over his ears, bending exaggeratedly away from the smoke alarm until his hair is almost scraping the floor. Slowly, he looks up and glares at the device so intensely you'd think it would've shit its batteries.

All movement is brought to a halt.

Without saying a single word, Roger commands Maureen to make it stop.

His knees quiver.

Robotically, Maureen flings the dishtowel over her shoulder and marches to the kitchen to guide the lingering heat towards the window.

Collins, however, massages my hair into one mound of cowlick and moaning, finishes distributing any leftover saliva onto my cheek with his tongue. The pierce of the smoke alarm subsides and Collins pushes off my chest and sinks into the cushion beside me.

Casually he crows, "Roger, Maureen made macaroni but you have to smear the noodles on Mark's face if you want any cheese."

My lungs cave in fighting not to laugh, but instead I decide it would be best to turn into a frightened robot and follow my girlfriend's lead to the safety of the kitchen. Lips drawn tight, she dabs at my face with her towel and creases the bridge of her nose, pretending to concentrate and eyeing Roger over my shoulder. She shimmies a little bit closer to me and we both sidestep away from the stove. Collins lolls over the arm of the couch and burps. "So…we know the smoke detector works! Was that loud or was that loud?"

"It was loud," Roger's voice pulsates. "Reeeally loud," He heckles Collins. "It kind of hurt," He stamps his foot, "My EARS." Collins bugs his eyes out a little and pretends to shy away into the couch cushion.

"…Do…you want macaroni then?"

Roger's ire is obviously ineffective with the collected man balanced on the sofa. Before she can shimmy and sidestep to the safety of our room, Maureen is targeted next. Roger retaliates and locks his swiveling eyes on the kitchen. "And what's your problem? Can't you fuck-ing cook?"

"No she can't." Collins and I say in unison, although mine is meant defensively and in good humor. Collins is looking for a fight.

Roger shakes his head and mumbles something that sounds like, "Piece of shit…" and turns his back on her. Before I am conscious of my temper, I have plucked an orange from the fruit bowl and am winding up to chuck the wretched thing at Roger's head. Maureen grabs my wrist for dear life- just in time, wringing the thing from my grip and chuckling quietly. She sets it on the counter and anxiously shakes her head.

"What were you gonna do? You were gonna throw an orange." Her voice is urgent and it is difficult for her to whisper. She's simultaneously trying not to laugh and sound defeated and terrified. She keeps shaking her head until it slumps against my shoulder. I keep my palm- minus the orange- open and hovering near her head, pulp trickling down my wrist. I curl my fingers closed and lower my arm. Roger does not bother to turn around.

"I was gonna throw an orange." I tell Maureen.

"I noticed. Wanna go for a walk and tell me about Benny?"

"Let's go for a walk. I'll tell you about Benny."

"…Good idea."

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Although, for the most part, I go to great lengths to dance and leap and hurdle around the subject of Roger's drug use, Maureen seems to tiptoe around it like it is some rabid mouse. She is willing to get close for an inquisitive look-see, but dare not touch for obvious reasons. She handles it like a piece of girl's room gossip- an impish offense that's just scandalous enough to be whispered about, but is brushed under wraps when the talk gets dodgy.

"Did Roger do it today?" When we are a few blocks away, she creeps up to me and leans into my ear, a breathy and eager whisper.

Did he do it? Like a naughty schoolboy that planted a tack on his teacher's chair.

Was his mission successful? Did I witness the deed? Was it amusing? Did I catch wind of the consequences? Shall I tattle?

"You should've seen Brenda's wig. The wedding planner? She looked just like Cleopatra. You would've drooled over her. It was great. It was a shiny blue-black, beaded strands, cut super-geometrically- very dramatic. You should've seen her."

Yes, he did it. Yes, his mission was successful. No, I didn't see it. Please, can we change the subject?

"Really." Maureen is thoroughly upset, somewhat peeved, and a smidgen thankful that I've changed the subject. Regardless, she gives me the silent treatment for an entire block in case I change my mind.

I don't.

"She was a very eccentric woman. I think you two would get along. Not- that you're eccentric…but she was just trippy and theatrical. A tad annoying though. Her voice was so shrill and distinctly Brooklyn she sounded more like an air horn than a human being."

"Nice."

There is a wavering of awkward silence.

"…And she kept calling me 'cat.' She called Benny 'Benji'. I loved it. But to me, it was like, 'Well hull-o there cat. You must be little Mark.' Little Mark. 'What's your waist size? No! Don't tell me! Twenty-six? Oh! I thought you'd be at least a thirty. Oy!"

"Oy?"

"Yeah. She was a such a schmooze too: 'Benji, dah-ling, you look fab. Just fab. Allison looks gorgeous too. Have ya seen her dress? Ah-mazing."

"Mark, please don't ever impersonate anyone from Brooklyn ever again."

"It was that bad?"

"Oy."

"Oh."

More silence.

"…I didn't get to see you in the tux."

"You will."

"Later?"

"No, at the wedding- why, do you want me to show you later?"

She bites her lip and nods. I can't stop myself from blushing boastfully. "You should see-it's really amazing what a couple extra grand can do for me. I look like Bond. I promise. Oh my God. It's awesome."

"Hm. Bond…" She grins roguishly. My eyebrow goes up. I reach out to put my arm around her but my palm sticks in the fuzz of her sweater. My eyebrow goes down. GODDAMNIT ROGER-

I take a deep breath and wipe my palm on my pants and exile any secret agent fantasies to the back burner of my brain. Maureen scowls. Now her shoulder smells like citrus.

"…And Benny's tux looks great too. I was afraid to ask what his is costing him."

"Oh, just be nosy. I wanna know."

"Okay. I wanna know too. Well bug him when he gets back tonight."

"We're so bad! Do you think we have to get them something?"

"Something?"

"You know- like a toaster or a bread maker or something."

"I don't think there's anything we can afford that they don't have already."

"Mark! Oh my God. We could buy them a big-ass box of condoms."

"Ha! …Ha… But…you think they'll have time for sex?"

"You think her dad'll let her have sex with him?"

"…They christened the Jaguar yesterday."

"And you rode in it?!"

"…Not in the backseat… Benny told me right after he dropped me off anyway."

"What a punk."

"We should borrow it."

"And have sex in it?"

"Is that an offer?"

--Several blocks and several offers later I have successfully eradicated any thoughts of Roger from either of our minds. I have also subconsciously lead Maureen to the quaint little church on Waverly Place where Allison and Benny are to wed. My navigation catches me off guard, and I stop to take in our surroundings.

Six o'clock Greenwich foot traffic scoots its way around us, and dim, grayish sunbeams filter through the trees lining the street. A flock of pigeons arch up toward the steeple and settle in a choreographed pattern along the buttresses, cooing softly. It is overwhelmingly romantic.

"-Kinda dumpy for them, innit?" Maureen assesses.

"Well, they chose it because Allison sang choir here for six years. And she was an acolyte."

"She's religious?"

I shrug. "She was."

"I never took them as church people."

"Me neither. But I thought you'd like to see it."

"Well, I do." She shields her eyes against the sun that's threatening to hide behind the church.

Suddenly, the church bells begin to swing.

Soundless at first, they shake off their silence, heftily gaining momentum. The huge copper pendulums call steadily over the quiet Greenwich street.

They don't ring out a song, but rather, a benediction, and I smile. They are a wonderful sound. They're like a choir, encompassing the little building with resonation and tone. They are so inspiring I take Maureen's hand.

"This- is one of the reasons I'm a filmmaker." I confess.

"The church bells?"

"Yeah." I agree distantly, unpacking my camera. "You see, this is kind of cool. Look. Look at all the people maneuvering around us."

"So?"

"So we're just standing here listening to the church bells. They think it's rather rude that we're holding up sidewalk traffic. And I bet they think it's a pointless gesture to film a steeple. We're… like an obstruction to the thousands of passing bodies. See? They'd all rather ram impolitely into my shoulder than stop and listen to the beauty of these things all ringing at once. I want to film them because maybe I want to save this sunny moment for a rainy day-" A woman hastily roller-skating towards us does not see me until the last possible second, spinning nearly out of control to avoid bumping my shot. Rather than apologize or curse, she stops to steady herself on a garbage can and frowns up at the steeple.

I smile triumphantly.

"See Maureen? There's the rub! No one else in New York will take the time to savor that sound until they barrel headfirst into an aspiring filmmaker and stop to contemplate what in hell he's filming. 'Is…is he filming the church bells? Weirdo. Naw, he can't be. Is there someone on the roof? …Nope… Weirdo…Wait, is he really filming those church bells? Why on earth…? Well…they are kinda nice…' You see? I'm doing them a favor."

Maureen looks mislaid.

I feel the corners of my huge corny smile droop and fade, and the church bells wind down, prompting me to please quit while I'm ahead.

"…I thought it was neat..."

"It was neat."

"No, no, don't lie. I lost you."

"You didn't. I definitely stopped to listen to the church bells."

"Yes, but would you've if I didn't?"

"Well, yeah Mark, you were showing me Benny's church…"

"Yeah but initially- …nevermind…. I lost you."

"No, you didn't lose me, I promise."

I sigh. "Okay. …So anyway the reception is in a rented-out theater. It's really smart. It's a black box. Maybe you can make a toast…"

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Collins is standing underneath the streetlight when we get back still as stone.

I whistle a catcall but he shakes his head firmly and clasps his hands behind his back.

"Did you see Roger?" He sounds a bit worried.

If Collins sounded a bit worried my response comes out in an unintentional wave of worry. "No. Why?"

Collins hops out of the beam of the streetlight and kicks at something on the ground.

"Well…Roger, he…" Collins lets out a shaky sigh. "He thought it was funny to throw the macaroni pan out the window." He swallows a snort. The corners of his lips itch and then he bursts out laughing and kneels beside the pan. "Okay, it was funny… But it was our only clean pan and I was wondering if you've seen him because I'm gonna beat his ass. I'm fucking hungry."