Chapter 2: Truth or Beauty

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The sun looks pink as it rises over the city. Well, not the sun, really, but the sky. There's a gently gray cloud cover this morning. The sky looks as soft as velvet, shot through with pink and yellow. It's deceptive, really.  It looks as though you could just step outside and take a deep breath and smell the scent of honeysuckle or lilacs, or some other poetic floral name. Really all you'd get is a mouthful of toxic fumes. Like life, I muse, wondering how my brain can possibly be functioning after a night of no sleep.

"Good morning."

The sound of Mark's voice makes me jump, and for some reason I'm reluctant to turn and face him.

"Hay," I mutter finally.

"Where's Roger?" he asks, bringing my mind back to the inevitable. I know there's no way for me to escape. I'm only kidding myself trying.

"Still in bed," I answer glumly.

Mark shrugs and attempts a reassuring smile. It doesn't succeed.

"It's early."

I shake my head.

"Doesn't matter. He won't get up."

Mark sighs.

"Now that's a depressing outlook. Did he say that, or are you just assuming?"

"I'm just assuming," I admit, "He's depressed. All I know is how he's acted in the past when he's been depressed."

"Then trust me when I say I have more experience there than you."

I can't argue with that. I just nod.

"I don't envy you there."

Mark cocks his head to the side and regards me quizzically for a moment. Then he turns away, picks up his camera, and aims it toward the very same sunrise that had my attention just moments ago.

"Pan across a beautiful sunrise and a beautiful morning," he narrates quietly, "Is truth beauty, or is beauty truth? And if beauty is truth and beauty is in the eye of the beholder, then is truth in the eye of the beholder?"

Mark switches off his camera and turns back to me.

"And that is why I am not a philosopher. But sometimes I make myself wonder."

"Wonder how?" I ask, suddenly curious.

"Well, people always talk about to photographs show the truth that we can't otherwise see in life. But what if what they really show is the truth that we create? The truth we *want* to see? A truth that we make for ourselves out of a carefully edited reality? In that case, is it really truth, or just our own, personalized lie?" He trails off as though losing his nerve suddenly. "I'm sorry. That probably didn't make any sense."

I think about the photo album and last night, and glance down at my hands to make absolutely certain I didn't dream the whole thing. Sure enough, each of my palms is marked by four tiny red half moons.

"No," I murmur, "No, it makes perfect sense."

"Really?" Mark asks, looking hopeful.

I smile at him.

"Yeah. Yeah, it does."

He smiles back, and I hold his gaze for a long time. It makes me feel calmer somehow.

"Mimi?" Roger's voice, calling from the bedroom, shatters the moment.

"See?" Mark says, looking at the ground, "I told you he'd snap out of it."

"That remains to be seen," I mutter, more harshly than I'd meant to, then I turn and make my way to the bedroom to find out.

To my surprise, Roger is up and dressed in a pair of old jeans and a faded black t-shirt. His leather jacket is folded over his arm.

"Where are you going?" I ask.

Roger looks slightly taken aback. I recognize that look. It's the look that says he was expecting me to read his mind, and now that I've actually asked him a question, he's not sure how to put the answer into words.

"Umm . . .for a walk in the park." He answers softly, "Come with me?"

I don't understand him, but I can't refuse.

"Sure."

He nods determinedly, then takes my hand and leads me toward the door. I'm surprised by how warm his hand feels around mine, and at the same time alarmed by the fact that I'd expected it to be cold. I shiver slightly at the thought and mentally kick myself. If I'm not careful, I'm going to waste the last precious few months I have with Roger. I know that I'm in danger of spending the whole time waiting to lose him, rather than enjoying the time we have left. I shake my head at myself as I suddenly realize we're out on the street and I haven't even noticed. I must be spending too much time with Mark. He's starting to rub off on me.

"Penny for you thoughts," Roger waves a hand in front of my face, bringing me back.

"I was. . .oh, nevermind."

Roger gives me and odd look, but then he wraps an arm around my waist and we continue walking. We reach the park in no time; after all if is just across the street. I smile to myself as I remember Roger joking about the 'wonderful view' from the loft on he night we met.

"Okay, no you have to tell me," Roger insists, stopping suddenly and grabbing me by the shoulders. "What were you smiling about?"

"I was thinking about the night we met."

An odd look comes across his face, as though he's not sure whether to laugh or cry.

"Yeah," he says softly, "Yeah, I was thinking about that too. Last night."

"What made you think about it?" I ask, standing in front of him and wrapping my arms around his waist. I lay my head against his chest, listening to the sound of his heart beating.

"I was just thinking that. . .you won't leave me alone."

I start to protest, but he holds up a hand for silence.

"Wait. Let me finish. I guess I've always felt that. . .anyone I've ever cared about has deserted me in some way. After April—" his voice cracks on her name, and he stops for a moment before regaining enough composure to continue. "I just wanted to crawl in a hole and stay there for the rest of my life. And then you barged into my apartment and into my life and you forced me to let you into my heart. And even when I left you, you found me again. And then last night. . .I did everything I could to push you away again, and you still wouldn't let me. Now-now I'm going to leave you and there's not one damn thing I can do about it."

I lean up and kiss him. It's all I can do. There are no words to describe the way I'm feeling.

"I know I'm hurting you. . .and that it's only going to get worse. I guess I feel worst about that. If there was anything I could do. . ." he shrugs, "God, I hate feeling so helpless."

"I know, babe, I know," I whisper, gently rubbing his back. And there it is again, that feeling of being torn to bits. And I know suddenly that that's what it is. It's helplessness.

"Roger," I say slowly, "What made you decide to do this? To walk in the park?"

Roger smiles slightly at that.

"I was just thinking this morning that I don't know how many more days I'll be able to go out. And so I figured I might as well take advantage of this one. No day but today." He looks me in the eye, "It's your mantra. Don't tell me you've forgotten it."

And suddenly I know. That's what's been missing these last few months. I haven't forgotten the words, but I've somehow lost their meaning.

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