"Okay sweetheart…sit up….it's time for you to take your AZT…"

Benny hoisted Mimi up gently onto his lap and stroked her brown curls. "Open up…" he urged her gently as he popped the pills into her mouth. "Mark, want to hand me that cloth over there?"

Mark, who had before been stupefied into silence, leaped into action and handed Benny the cloth. The filmmaker was astonished at how Mimi's condition worsened since Roger's departure six months before. She was 75 pounds at the most, and her tiny frame was racked with coughing fits that caused her to double over in pain. Always the observer, Mark watched Mimi wearily lean her head on Benny's shoulder and close her brown eyes.

"Alright, you're tired…" Benny eased her down onto the bed and tucked the blankets tightly around her. "Come on, Mark…let's have a drink in the living room or something…"

Mark had by this time whipped out his camera and was filming the entire thing. An idea was formulating in his mind. "Just a few more minutes…" he said softly, panning slowly to catch every inch of Mimi's fragility.

"Mark, stop that!" Benny exclaimed in amazement. "What the hell are you doing?"

Mark obediently flipped the off switch on his camera. "Just a little clip…Benny, she looks awful…"

Benny sighed and led Mark into the living room. "She's come a long way…everyday she asks me about Roger. How is his song doing? Have you heard from him? Is he performing nearby?" He shook his head. "She just can't get over him, Mark. As hard as I try, she just won't move on."

Mark rewound and watched his footage. Rage began to boil in the normally easygoing filmmaker as he saw the formerly bright, happy, no-day-but-today Mimi become a fragile little girl who could barely eat on her own. And it was all because of Roger. Mark slammed the player shut and gritted his teeth.

"This isn't over, Benny…keep the phone line open."

Benny heated a water bottle for Mimi. "What are you talking about Mark?" he asked confusedly.

Mark pulled on his coat. "I can't stand idly by anymore. For once in my life, I'm going to stand up for someone."

* * * * *

"Mr. Davis?" squeaked the wary voice of Anna, Roger's personal assistant. She peeked her face into Roger's dressing room, to find him tuning his guitar. "You have someone here to see you…"

Roger looked up from his guitar. "Is it my agent?"

"No, sir. It's a Mr. Cohen…"

Roger blinked. "Mark Cohen? Mark is here?" He put the instrument back in its case and stood up. "Send him in…wow, it's been six months since I've seen that crazy cat…" He smiled, excited for a happy reunion.

Anna moved aside to let the diminutive blonde boy in. He had a look of determination on his usually nervous face.

"MARK!" cried Roger, approaching him. "Man, it's been so long!"

"Too long, in fact." Mark's voice was cold. "Before I say anything else, I want to apologize in advance."

"For what?"

Inhaling sharply, Mark reared back and with whatever strength he had, he socked Roger in the jaw. All the anger, all the rage, all the sympathy for Mimi was in that punch, and the force of it knocked Roger flying. "This," Mark snapped.

Roger tumbled back into a chair. "WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT ALL ABOUT?" he screamed.

Mark suddenly realized what he had done. Normally fear would have taken over, and maybe a marathon to China, but he stood his ground. "It was for Collins. And Maureen and Joanne. And me. And Mimi. Especially Mimi." He stomped over to where Roger was nursing his face and opened the player on his camera. "I want to show you something…"

"What is your problem?" Roger hissed. "Mimi and I broke up. It's better this way. I'm fine, she's fine."

"She's FINE?" Mark yelled. "Do you call this fine?" He pressed the play button and the image of Mimi, sickly and pale flashed up before Roger's eyes. Benny spoon feeding her, fluffing her pillows, tucking her in, holding her hair as she vomited.

Roger's cold eyes softened at this sight. "What happened to her…" he whispered. "She was fine when I left…"

Mark snapped the player shut. "You did this to her. You left her and she was so shattered that she stopped eating. She got sick. The disease is killing her. She's got two months left, tops. She's dying, and YOU'RE killing her."

Roger stared at his hands. "She's with Benny now?"

Mark laughed scornfully. "He wishes. Benny just is a friend who takes care of her, day in day out. He bought her and himself an apartment so he could watch her all the time. HE cares about her, which is hardly what I can say for you."

Standing up sharply, Roger got up in Mark's face. "Who the hell are you to say I don't care about Mimi?"

Mark's knees started knocking in fear. "I'm a friend. Someone who knows you haven't called her, or visited her, and even checked in with her in six months. You left her again."

"You just don't get it!" hollered Roger, knocking music sheets off the table. It was very rare that MARK was the one to tell him he was wrong. It was usually the other way around. "This is my dream Mark! I have money, and fans. I have a dressing room and a personal assistant and performances booked until April! I'm rich and famous because of my song!"

Mark gripped his camera. "Fine. Enjoy your success. But lest you forget WHY you wrote that fucking song. You wrote it for Mimi. All those thousands upon thousands of girls who think you're singing to them about their eyes…they're just as blind as you are. So keep your dressing room and your performances. And go on forgetting about the girl whose eyes got you here in the first place. Because she's got people who care about her. And she doesn't need you anymore. I'll see you when your song leaves the charts."

With every ounce of courage Mark had left, he threw his scarf over his shoulder and stomped out, slamming the door behind him.

Roger stared at the door for a long time. A single tear trickled down his cheek at the remembrance of seeing Mimi sick. And it was all his fault. She was his one-song glory. Her eyes brought him here, and pretty soon they'll close forever because of him. The realization of it all hit him hard.

Roger sat down. He numbly picked up his guitar and started to strum it. "I should tell you…I have always loved you…you can see it in my eyes…"

Bowing his head in his hands, Roger started to cry.