Scared that I might need you"
I can't
believe this. I'm standing outside the loft, holding a suitcase in my trembling
hands, gripping it like there's no tomorrow. And, I suppose there is no
tomorrow, is there? I'm losing him – I'm losing the one person I dared to love.
I've never really been in love before, and I'm not sure how it's supposed to
feel, but I do know it's not supposed to feel like this – as if I'm being torn
apart, ripped open; feeling the salt sting my freshly cut wounds until they
bubble with remorse and an aching desire to make it all go away… You know, I should
have been a poet.
I still can't
believe this. Holding his suitcase while he packs the car – that tiny little
Bug that April used to give me rides uptown in, with it's red trim and funky
odors radiating from within – I stand outside what has not really been his home
for years now, my muscles refusing to let up on the vise-like hold I've
attained to the handle, because I know once I let this go, he'll snatch it away
and leave me blind, wavering as the little car speeds away to Santa Fe, where
he'll most assuredly find a new life – dare I say – a better life; one where he
doesn't have to deal with all this bullshit that I've given him and all the
bullshit New York has given him. I wonder if he knows he'll still have to deal
with his own bullshit, which is probably worse than the others combined. I
wonder if he'll be okay…
"Thanks,
Mark," he says with a smile, taking the suitcase from my quivering fingertips,
walking back to his car to pack it in tightly with the others.
I wonder why I
can't move. I'm frozen in place like some statuesque figurine that's been
shelved all it's life. I feel empty and drained of everything I've ever felt. I
feel like if I speak or move, I might ruin this for him. Maybe it's best to not
say anything at all and stand here like the lump of dried clay you are, Cohen;
that way, neither he nor you will have to deal with your babbling heart – he
won't have to hear you ramble like a bum on the streets; like you usually are,
and he won't have to deal with your broken heart. You know he doesn't want to
deal with it, Mark; you know he doesn't care.
Maybe… Maybe
it's best this way – to leave him without a word; to let him go off to his
future and leave the past behind without a care. Because, he doesn't care, I
know. I'm not so naïve that I wouldn't notice that. Maybe I'm praying for him
to speak first. Maybe I'm too chicken to actually step forward again and get
down on my knees and beg him, like the little puppet I am, to stay, so that I
might feel better about myself to know that someone does actually love me and
need me and want me. Maybe I'm selfish in that respect. Maybe all I am is his
pawn; placed before him to do whatever he wants, because if he asked anything
at this moment, I doubt I could refuse, no matter what the task. Maybe I'm sick
of it. Yes, maybe I'm tired of dancing for his pleasure and his pleasure only.
Maybe I'm fucking fed up with being Mark Cohen: Roger Davis's plaything. Maybe
I'm just angry with myself for feeling betrayed. But, don't I have the right to
feel that way? Maybe I don't deserve to feel the way I do. Maybe I'm wondering
when the hell this all got complicated, and maybe I'm just praying for him to
leave so that I can start anew and actually do something worthwhile with my
life. Maybe I'm right to be fuckin' angry with him for making me start over
like this. Maybe –
"Well, I think
that's the last of it, Roger," Maureen whispers, suddenly standing beside me as
she tosses him his digital clock that had been sitting on his floor for…God,
how many years now?
I wish Maureen
and Joanne would go away. Why the hell do they have to ruin this for me? But
then, I remember it was my idea to go and wake them up and pester them, so it's
my fault they're here. No one to blame but yourself, smart guy – you fucking idiot.
He catches it
with a smile, checking the time with a sort of haze in his eyes. Maybe he
realizes how important a little clock was, too. "Thanks, guys… I guess that's
about it then, huh?"
I feel the
tears, threatening to break through the dam and send a flood cascading down my
cheeks, but I hold them back, biting frantically at my tongue to divert the
pain elsewhere, letting my gaze wander to where the sun should be – the
beautiful sun covered by a fogginess that would only come today, accompanied by
thunder clouds that loom with ferocity.
"Well, honey,
we'll miss you," Joanne begins, hugging him tightly enough to wring the very
air from his lungs. "You know you're welcome at our place anytime, and I hope
you'll take me up on that offer."
His smile is
sad but at the same time beautiful as he wraps his arms around her. "Thank you
for everything. I'll come back again. It's not like I'm going away forever or
anything." He smirks, moving to Maureen.
Before he
knows what to do, she throws her arms around him, kissing him – deeply – on the
lips, her fingers twining through his hair. I hold back a chuckle at this,
shaking my head as Roger tenses, trying to pull away with no success. Maureen
will always be Maureen. Letting him go, he kind of wavers there with an
adorable blush on his face. "Sorry, Roger," she whispers, tears falling down
her cheeks. "But, it's your last day. I mean, how could I live with myself if I
didn't do that?"
Joanne growls,
pulling her away. "You said you were gonna give him a kiss on the cheek!"
"Sorry,
pookie, but you know how carried away I get…" She sniffles, wrapping her arms
around Joanne's waist and burying her head in the larger woman's chest. "I'm
gonna miss him!" She sobs frantically, and again, I shake my head – drama queen
'til the bitter end.
A drop of rain
falls, and then, another. I look at the man standing before me, and we're both
at a loss for words. Does he know how much I'll miss him? Does he care? I sense
that he's as hurt as I am: a thought, which, until now, never occurred to me.
He's always been the rock, and I was always the stem that bent to the wind's
whim. Rocks don't bend, I remind myself. Why then, does it appear to me now
that he's holding back tears, as well? Maybe he knows that he's never coming
back. It's not like it's a secret, no matter what lies he tells us all.
"So…" he
laughs, biting his lower lip and rubbing the back of his neck with his hand,
averting his gaze from me.
I smile a bit,
pushing my glasses up and running my fingers through my long tresses, letting
my own glance fall to my feet, clad in the same worn-out tennis shoes that I've
had for the past seven years or so. "Yeah…" The situation is comical, really,
if you think about it – ironic, too, perhaps, but comical to the very last.
"So, you gonna hug me, or what? I don't have all day, y'know…" I look up with a
tiny smirk playing at my lips as I see his smile – that gorgeous, friendly
Roger Davis smile that I've known for so long.
"Yeah, I
know." He's the first to make a move. Reaching out, his hands come to rest
first on my shoulders as he pulls me close and then around my back, holding me
tightly against his body. "I'm gonna miss you, Mark…"
Closing my
eyes, I fall into a world all of my own, throwing my arms around him and
falling against the warmth that is his body heat, and amazingly enough, I'm not
crying yet, even as I bury my head in his shoulder, breathing in his scent:
that glorious aroma that reminds me of every day ever spent with him. I
remember when we were just kids; when he wore that huge leather jacket with
silver zippers and chains adorning it; when I wore tight jeans and tucked-in
sweatshirts that my mother laid out for me. I remember when we first moved into
the loft; when Benny was still one of our closest friends; when Allison was
just a name, and we'd never feared Mr. Grey's influence; when Maureen and I
were still dating, sleeping in the same bed night after night; when Collins was
still alive – and perfectly healthy – and had no idea he was HIV-positive; and
when April was still with us, and she and Roger were sleeping in the same bed
just a room away, entwined in bliss. I remember when things started to get
complicated; when April died and Roger was diagnosed; when the mere mention of
the name Joanne Jefferson would make me go into hysterics, wondering what I'd
done to make Maureen a lesbian; when Collins met Angel and Angel made us who we
are now; when Benny married Allison and moved out, demanding the rent as if he
were God, renting out our lives for a percentage monthly; and when I began to
realize that I was, and would always be, alone. I remember the friends who
started to disappear and those who I knew would always remain, despite the
changing seasons; April – the first to go and the only to do so by her own
hand; Angel – who left us with so much more than we could've asked for; and
Collins – who was the only person to ever openly admit he loved me, without
asking it in return…
Struggling for
breath, I wonder if Roger is the next to follow in the seemingly endless chain
of deaths that surround me. Someday, I remind myself, I will truly be all
alone, and I won't have anyone to turn to. Clutching Roger even tighter, I feel
the tears burning lines down my scarlet cheeks, an empty void filling my
stomach. "You don't have to go…" I mutter softly, pulling back just a bit, but
still holding onto him.
He seems to
shiver a bit looking at me and he's holding back tears – I can see them
glistening in his eyes with every blink. "I do, Mark. You know I can't stay."
"Why the hell
not?" My voice raises, and I notice Joanne and Maureen slinking off, probably
embarrassed for me, because even I know I'm going to make an ass out of myself.
"You've never been clear on why you're always running off."
"Because I'm
fuckin' scared, Mark," he bites out angrily. "Okay?"
I reach up,
brushing away a strand of hair from his eyes, relishing in the feel of his skin
briefly coming into contact with my own. "Scared of what?" My voice is
surprisingly controlled and mellow.
He doesn't
move away like I thought he would. He only stares at me as I allow my fingers
to trail over his temple with a featherlike touch. Before I can do anything
else, his hand snatches my wrist roughly and he holds it before his face,
glaring at me. "Scared of you."
"Of…me?" I
ask, helplessly wincing from the grip he has on my fragile limb.
"Of what I'd
do if I stayed with you."
I falter,
blinking in shock. "Wh-what?" I manage to breathe out, swallowing the lump that
has wedged itself in my throat. "What would you…?" my voice trails off quietly.
I can't even think of a coherent response to him. Immediately I know it must be
a dream. Yes, a horrible, horrible dream for him to say that to me when he
knows he's leaving for good. "If that's the reason you're leaving, then fuck
you, Roger."
His eyes
sadden a bit, then narrow in anger. "No, fuck you… It took a lot of fuckin'
courage for me to say that."
"Yeah, but you
don't mean it. You wouldn't leave if you thought there was something between
us. You didn't leave April, and you didn't leave Mimi. So, why the hell is
different with me?"
"You're a
man, damn it!" he cries furiously, shoving me away. "How do you think it
makes me feel when I look at you and I tremble?"
"Maybe the
same way I feel?" I offer crossly. "Goddamn it, Roger… I love you. I
don't want you to leave because I love you."
"I don't
care," he growls, walking to his car.
I race after
him, grabbing his shoulders to spin him around to face me. "I know you don't
care, but I'm not you. So to hell with it all – if you leave, I'll still love
you. It's not going to go away like some –"
"I'm sick, Mark!" he
shouts, interrupting me. "I've got a few more months before I'll be dead, okay?
So, don't fucking treat me like I'm a fucking invalid anymore. I'm so fucking
sick of this bullshit. I came back here thinking maybe things had changed;
maybe Collins' death gave you something besides pain and more confusion, but I
see that it hasn't, so there's no reason for me to stay. You get it now, Mark?"
He moves forward, wiping irately at the tears on his face. "Or are you still as
fucking clueless as before?"
I stumble back a few steps,
enraged. How can he say these things to me? "You're just scared, so you're
pushing the weight of life onto my shoulders like you always do. Well, I'm not
gonna take it anymore, Roger. You're sick – yes, we all know! Deal with it!
Don't think I'm just going to be your little toy once more. Don't make it so
that it looks like it's my fault you're leaving, because it's not. I want
you to stay, so this won't burden me for once!"
"Jesus fucking
Christ, Mark! Don't turn this around on me, either."
We both stop,
almost at the same time, as I feel more rain, suddenly covering me with its
wetness. I look down, sighing. "Look, you've got to go, and we're getting
nowhere here, so why don't you just drive off already?"
He turns away,
drips of water floating around him as he bangs his fists onto the back of the
car, his whole carriage drooping as he drops his head slowly. "I hate this…
Fuck it all… I've got to go, Mark. If I don't, I'll waste the rest of my life
here. New York has eaten me whole and devoured me…" He shakes his head to clear
it of water, but still the rain falls, drenching him in it as he turns to face
me, eyes red with tears that mix on his face. "I can't stay, but why can't you
leave?"
I look up,
queasiness saturating me. "Why…what?"
"Come with me
to Santa Fe, Mark. Don't let New York kill you like it's killed me…"
I swallow,
breathing erratically as I feel my palms sweating, even as the cool water
rushes over me. Through the blurry haze on my glasses, I can still see him,
standing there like the statue I was before, only this time, he's bared himself
to me – his emotions are laid out on a table and he offers them to me with that
simple question. So, why can't I?
The question
is one I've pondered ever since his first trip to Santa Fe, but I've never come
up with a reliable answer that satisfies both head and heart; they're so different,
the two sides jousting over my body, wringing answers out of me, when I know
that –
"Stop
thinking, Mark," Roger snaps, closing the distance between us with a single
stride. "If you think about it, we'll be here all day. Don't reflect – just
answer."
I nod,
lowering my gaze to the ground. "If I answer now, you're not gonna like it."
He sighs, body
almost limp again. "You're not coming, are you?" He groans, shoving me away
roughly. "Sometimes I hate you so much Mark! You never do anything for yourself,
you know! You just sit there and reflect over every Goddamn thing that happens
to you! You dissect and pick apart and observe and obsess and scrutinize and
examine and analyze and study and everything but what you need to do – see."
He pulls my chin up, forcing my eyes to his. "You lose sight of what really
matters when you put things under that fuckin' microscope of yours, and it
makes me sick to realize that you'll survive long after I've gone because of
that. But, you know what's worse? You'll have never lived a fucking day in your
miserable life, Mark. You'll have regrets piled up in the back of your mind.
You'll regret not coming with me."
"I've tried to
–"
"You'll regret
pushing me away like this."
"I've never
even –"
"You'll regret
spending your whole damn life behind that stupid camera!" his voice rises.
"You know, I'm
not the one who –"
"And you'll
fucking regret being so naïve about everything. You'll regret watching me die
and not helping me."
As I open my
mouth to retort something just as righteous back at him, I find my mouth is
dry. The drips of rain pound against my face as it contorts to sadness. The
tears have dried, but I can still feel the places they left their marks on my
raw flesh. I think maybe for once, Roger is right-on in his accusations. And
yet, I'm still thinking. "Look, Roger, I've tried to help you, but you don't
seem to want my help. I've done everything I can. It's your own fault now. Once
you leave, you do realize you'll have no one to blame this on but yourself,
don't you?" I scowl at him. "God forbid you have to take responsibility for
your own actions."
He stares at
me for a moment, and I can almost sense his fear and the breaking of his own
heart by my words. "This whole thing is fucked up," he whispers, turning away
and walking towards the driver's side. "Thanks for at least considering," he
continues sarcastically. "I guess I'll see ya 'round."
"Roger…" I
dependently follow, still attached to the leash he holds on my heart. "I want
to come."
"Then come,"
he retorts, not even bothering to turn around.
"I can't."
"Then don't."
He shrugs. "Forget I ever asked, okay? Have a nice life," he turns halfway,
glaring, "—alone."
I fold my
arms, backing away. "Y'know, you're going to be alone, too. It's not just me
who suffers from this bullshit!"
"Thanks for
the reminder. I'm sure my last months alive will be filled with nothing but
pain then, right?" He gets in the car, slamming the door.
I wipe the
cascading waterfall of rain off my features, tearing the glasses off my face so
that I can see him. "That's not what I meant… I don't want you to go, Roger.
Please, don't go. I'm sorry, okay?" He starts the car, and I attempt to yell
over the noise and through the closed window, "I'm sorry!"
"Good. Great."
He turns a little, rolling down the window. "I'll call."
I reach out to
take his face his my hands and he shrugs me away. Whimpering, I back up a step,
wrapping my arms around myself and feeling my body shiver roughly in the
wetness and cold that shrouds me. "I'm gonna miss you…"
He lowers his
head, bowing it and letting his eyes close, as if in pain. "Yeah…" He grips the
steering wheel tightly, his knuckles almost white as he clenches his jaw,
trying to hide the pain, but it's so much more visible this way. "Bye," he
chokes out, his voice cracking slightly. His eyes opening, the window rolls up
and the car begins to slowly move away.
I watch,
spellbound by the finality of it all. Roger's going away, leaving forever. So
lethargically, he leaves me, not even offering a glance in the rear view mirror
as the tiny Bug rides off in the rain that sweeps across me forcefully,
smacking against my bear face. Sobbing quietly, I turn away, noticing Maureen
and Joanne are still there, just ducking underneath an overhang on the façade
of the building, arms and bodies entwined in a gentle hug that I envy
immediately. Lips trembling, I race away from them – I can't stand to face
those two who are so happily in love, knowing they know everything about me now
– towards…Hell, I don't know where! I'm so fucking confused by all this… I want
to run back to him and just jump in the car and ride away to Santa Fe, forget
my troubles and live in utter bliss.
A crash of
lightning clears the dark sky for a moment, splitting it in two distinct
halves, both red and yellow with electric energy, and my heart pounds
frantically out of time. Clutching my chest, I bend over, leaning against the
sidewall of the loft, erratic heartbeats swelling to a definite crescendo in my
head, pounding like the rustic ticking of a booming clock, showering me with
the wild and desperate need for him, only moments after he's gone, and
somewhere in the back of my head, I hear his voice, so distinct and handsome
that it sends explicit chills to play upon my spine, as he whispers, 'I
can't stay, but why can't you leave?' The words haunt me, taunting my soul
with such regrets as I imagine living the remainder of my life by his side, as
I've always envisioned growing old. I'd never thought I'd be the one to
end what I'd always wanted over something so stupid as the past; because that's
why I can't go – New York has beaten me: just like it killed Roger, it is
killing me, and I know now that I'll never survive it… Never…
The courage
fills me now as I think about what's going to happen to me…. I jump up;
fumbling to race around the corner, back to where April's car hopefully still
stands, back to my musician – my Roger… Stumbling on slipping feet, I run smack
into another body, falling down hard, staring up into those dark eyes that
implore me. Propping myself up slightly, sitting on my rear and just gazing
upwards at that beautiful face, I swallow, offering a feeble smile. "You…you
didn't leave?"
Roger shakes
his head, offering his hand to help me up and I take it. "No. I didn't leave."
That's all I
need to hear. The words themselves hold little meaning, but hidden behind it is
a depth that Roger shows no one – he has proven that he does care, despite his
head's protests. "Why not?"
He smiles just
slightly enough to let me see it, before pushing me against the wall with his
palm against my chest, holding me still as my eyes widen. "I couldn't leave
without doing this." And he kisses me.
It's not a
gentle kiss and it's not a kiss that bonds us – it's a kiss that is hungered
and passionate, making up for all the other times, the lost times, that we
could have done this but never took that final step forward. It's not smooth or
tender – it's smoldering and stimulating, causing my knees to weaken and pallid
lids to fall to a desperate close, lashes fluttering to rest on scarlet flushed
cheeks; arms wrapping around his neck, one of my hands pulling him ever closer
to get every last inch of him in my needy mouth that suddenly aches for more as
my lithe fingertips twine in those luscious silken locks, caressing the
sensitive skin at the back of his neck. The length of his body presses up
against me and I hear his own fraught moan as he pushes himself up on me,
causing more than a few loud whimpers from my own throat. Years of bottled up
emotions are shined upon in full light as the rain floods over our already
drenched bodies and I feel his hand at the waistband of my pants. Arching
myself towards him, I manage to push away a bit, fighting his hands to the
side, almost sharply shoving them off of me. "Jesus, Roger…" I whisper
hoarsely, trying to break free, but he persists, hot lips trailing a fiery path
down my skin to suck against the dripping flesh of my Adam's apple. "Stop it…"
"No," he
murmurs against my throat. "Come with me…" he continues as I feel his tongue
against me.
"I c-can't…" I
shift positions, eyes opening in a half-mast expression that is written as
lust, despite my words. He doesn't listen, swallowing my protests with a
groin-tightening kiss that again shoves me back up against the wall, making my
head spin. My arms drop limply to either side as I let him move me like the
broken chess piece I am. Everything feels so good – better than the dream – but
I know why he does it, and I can't accept it like this. So, I tear out of that
harsh grasp, breathing ferociously as I glare at him from the safe distance of
two steps away. "I said – stop."
He licks his
lips, eyes lowering in a bit of red embarrassment as he tries to manage his own
panting. Shaking his head, he's the first to waver, running his hands through
his saturated hair. "What the fuck do you want from me, Mark? I want you to
come and… Yes, there, I've said it. I need you to come with me." He
looks up, urgently searching my face for the reply he so craves.
I whimper, my
throat tightening with held back words that I long to say, but I can't allow
him to do this to me. "No matter what, I'm alone." No, this isn't what I want
to say. Just say 'Yes, I'll come with you!', you fucking idiot! What the hell
is the matter with you, Cohen, you moron? "If I go with you, I'll be happy for
a short period until you leave me, for whatever reason – albeit death or change
of heart, which you so often have, Roger; don't deny it – and then I'll be so
depressed that I won't be able to go on. At least this way, I'll know I'm
the one making the choice."
"You'll regret
it," he whispers, his voice so soft and condemning I can barely hear him.
"At least it's
my decision."
"Fuck your
decision."
I move
forward, pulling him into a hug. "I love you…."
"Fuck off!" he
cries, trying to push away weakly. "Goddamn you…" Whimpering, he falls against
me, clutching me as if he can't let go, and somewhere in the back of my mind I
know he can't. It's the last ounce of the past he's hanging onto – that one
little string of hope that tightens and frays in his horrid grasp. "I hate that
I love you…"
I nod against
him, sighing heavily. "I know." Pulling away, despite his holding on, I shrug.
"You know it's better this way. Hell, even I know it, Roger." I smile a bit;
that cock-eyed grin he must know so well.
"I know…" He
wipes his eyes with a laugh. "I feel like this is a damned soap opera, Mark –
some idiotic book that people read for fucking amusement and here I am crying
my eyes out like a child…like –"
"Me?" I offer
with a short chuckle. He nods as I continue. "I guess the cliché thing to say
here would be that we both need to start a new chapter in the book, huh?"
His smile is
genuine. "No; it would be that this chapter of our lives is closing."
I nod, feeling
tears slip out of my eyes. "So, you'd better leave for real this time. I don't
think either of us can take another comeback…"
He sighs as
his shoulders droop sadly. "I don't want to go, but I don't want to stay either."
"I know what
you mean… But, I think I'm going back to Scarsdale for a bit."
"What?! Are
you nuts?"
I nod swiftly.
"Maybe… There are some demons I have to face there… You know, the usual
monsters under the bed that I need to clean out."
"Your mom will
be happy."
"Yeah…"
"What about
your dad?"
I frown,
sniffing in the tears. "I'm not sure how to face him. I've changed now; I can
feel it. Even when you told me I'd changed, I never believed it, but I can feel
it inside me – this fire that's telling me to face every fear I've ever hidden
from, and I don't intend to cower in horror this time."
He smiles
brightly as I realize the rain has let up just slightly. "When the hell did you
get so brave, Mark Cohen?"
I shrug, not
blushing for once at the open compliment on my sudden courage. "I don't know."
I pause shortly, staring at him. "And I'm not going to wonder either. It's
there, so let it be. Fuck reflections." I laugh lightly, taking his hand and
squeezing it, knowing it's the last time I'll feel this warmth; the last time
I'll have this intimacy with Roger.
That night,
sitting alone in the loft, I let my gaze wander to the picture walls, perusing
the endless array of vivid images, mentally noting how I haven't added anything
new for months. I smile gently, reminding myself of when things were less
complicated – when Maureen and I were dating. Yeah, it strikes me as odd how
thinking of Maureen would calm me at a time like this, but it does,
because, at that time, I had it all figured out. I knew I was going to be a
famous filmmaker. I knew I was going to marry Maureen and we'd have kids by the
time I could drink (legally, that is). I knew that Roger and I would be best
friends always and that we'd end up being roommates forever, despite my wife's
surefire protests. Life was so much easier when I seemed to know everything.
Now that I realize how little I know, I'm desperate for answers, incomplete as
I begin to understand there aren't any to some of the tough subjects I ponder.
The phone
rings, and I cock my head, allowing myself to study it. Jesus, when did I buy a
new phone? I race over to it, picking it up before the machine gets it.
"Hello?"
"Hi Mark.
Wait… You're answering the phone now?"
I smile.
Toby's voice brings my reveries to a halt. I haven't talked to him for a while
now, since he's been taking college courses in filming and directing. He's also
interning at NBC. "I didn't do it purposely." I shrug. "Complete and utter
accident."
"That's so
unlike you."
I laugh
lightly. "So, what'd you want?"
"Just calling
to invite you to dinner tonight."
"No flow,
kid," I reply quietly. "The money tree is bare."
"My treat?" he
offers; I know it's accompanied by a hopeful smile.
"Miss
Jacqueline coming, as well?"
"Nope."
My eyes narrow
slightly. "What are you up to, Toby?"
I hear him snickering. "Nuttin'
honey."
I pause,
thinking it over. Well, I was planning on staying home and regretting letting
Roger go, but what the hell… I sigh, bowing my head. "What time?"
6:00 sharp, I
walk up to the Life Café, shrugging my jacket onto my shoulders a bit more,
realizing dimly that I've left my scarf. Stopping at the door, I bite my lip,
wondering if I should go back and get it. Somehow, I feel naked without it…
But, screw it. I'm only here for a bit anyway, and it's a short walk in
not-at-all-cold weather, so what would be the point?
Sulking in,
still feeling incomplete without the scarf, I notice Toby immediately and
ignore the waiters who try and stop me from entering without checking with them
first. "Hey there," I say, watching him fumble to stand.
"Long time no
see."
I smile. "Your
fault, not mine."
"I know, I
know. Don't berate me, Mark."
We embrace
loosely. "Aw, gonna ruin my fun, are you?" I pull away, taking the seat across
from him and making a face at his new look, which consists of black and…well,
black. "What's with the new threads, guru?"
He looks down,
checking himself with a short laugh, shrugging as his eyes rise to mine. "I
dunno… I like black; what can I say?"
I nod,
ordering tea from a passing waitress. "Thanks," I murmur.
"Oh come on,
Mark! I'm paying, and all you order is tea?" He leans forward a bit, all
seriousness now. "Roger's going away must be taking its toll."
I shoot him a
glare. "Don't start, Toby…"
"Start what?
I'm curious; so sue me."
"One call to
Joanne could do just that," I retort, smirking halfway.
He sighs,
letting his frame go semi-limp in the chair as he leans back, sipping on some
kind of dark liquid. "Okay, so you're telling me all's well in the world of
Mark and Roger?"
I shrug,
leaning back as well. "Define 'well'."
"Mark…"
I shake my
head, clearing my throat. "What? It's not as if you really care, Toby."
"How can you
say that? You know I care."
"Why didn't
you come to say goodbye then?" My eyes implore, searching his features for some
kind of answer.
"I couldn't
get off, Mark… NBC doesn't give me just any old hour off, y'know."
"Why don't you
quit that useless job?" I muse aloud, twirling a napkin in my fingers. "It
doesn't give you any experience for what you want to do."
"That useless
job pays for my college tuition." His eyes narrow slightly. "How does working
at a publicly recognized and award-winning television station not give me
experience for watching directors at work and seeing how films are made?"
"Whoa, slow
down… I didn't mean to initiate a fight."
He sighs. "I'm
stressed. I know." After a short pause, in which my tea is delivered, he
continues. "So, since I couldn't be there, give me all the details."
I sip at it,
stirring with a spoon absently. "We hugged, cried, yelled, berated, kissed,
cried some more, screamed –"
"K-kissed?" he
spits some of that liquid at me while stuttering it out.
I nod, not
bothering to look up. "Yeah. So then, we –"
"Hold on…
What's with the kiss? Did I miss something? I mean, you're…" He pauses,
studying me with suddenly wide eyes. "I should've seen it. I mean, you're into
art, you've been best friends with Roger since you were young, and you went
into relapses whenever he left you because you're –"
"Don't say
it," I snap, eyes fiery. "I'm not. So, don't."
"So you didn't
kiss him, then?"
I shrug, face flushing no matter
what I try to do. "He kissed me, if you're really that interested in the groggy
details…"
He smirks.
"Groggy? No, something tells me it was anything but."
"Shut up."
"Come on Mark…
I don't see you for…well, for forever, and now you're holding back?" He smiles,
tossing a sugar packet at my face.
I hold back a
giggle as it hits me on the nose. Tossing it back, marveling at my bad aim,
which sends it to a man two tables down, I nod. "Well, what do you want to
know?"
"Did you like
it?"
I freeze. But
then I think…what the hell does it matter now? Fuck it. "Yeah. I did."
"Mark," he
begins quietly, "I didn't know you were –"
"I'm not,"
I retort, interrupting him again before he says what I don't want to hear.
"Trust me." I take another – long – drink of the tea. "I wonder if they still
make those Long Island teas here…" I ponder aloud, accidentally.
He grimaces,
making some gross gestures that make it obvious he thinks Long Island iced teas
are disgusting. "Don't joke like that!" He laughs lightly.
I don't smile,
looking around and noting for once the changes made in the old café. I guess I
never wanted to see that they put up new wallpaper and re-furnished some of the
seats near the bar. I make a face, wondering what else I've missed recently…
"You're
serious…?" Toby continues, seriously concerned as I turn towards him. "Since
when do you drink?"
I shrug. "I promised I wouldn't
do it anymore."
He quirks a
brow. "Wait…what have I missed?"
I smile. "If
you wouldn't have gone away to college, you might be in on all the little
mishap adventures that go on at the loft, but since you've been gone, you don't
get to hear all the tidbits and stories."
"Hardy-har-har,
Mark…" He sighs. "I'm learning a lot about you all of a sudden."
I nod. "That's
a good thing, right?" We both pause, and I listen to the sounds around me – the
clinking of silverware, the clicking of high-heeled boots against the floor,
the chatter of aimless minds at tables not far away, the simmering of
vegi-burgers on the grill… "So, why dinner?" I finally ask.
A smile
appeared on his face, brightening his whole appearance. "I have good news."
I lean on my
elbows on the table, gesturing him on. "Oh, do tell."
"I just got a
great job offer – one for you, too." My eyes widen slightly. I wasn't expecting
that, but y'know, more power to him. He's a good, smart kid – I shouldn't be
surprised he'd start to be hounded after by little companies for his work. But
why for me as well? What would anyone want from both of us? "From a friend of
yours, amazingly enough."
My smile
matches his. "Wow, that's wonderful. Wait…a friend of mine?" I cock my head to
the side, taking a sip of my tea.
"Yeah," he
continues happily. "Benny called me the other day to –"
"Benny!" I gag
on the tea, wheezing as it goes down the wrong pipe. Swallowing hurriedly, I
manage to choke out, "What the hell does he want from you?"
Toby's eyes
narrow a bit. "You're not happy for me?" He watches me like a hawk, and I
suddenly realize how much he's changed.
"Well…" I
cough a bit, holding my chest while trying to battle the water in my lungs. "To
be perfectly honest, no."
"Ben said
you'd be skeptical."
I shoot him an angered face.
"What else did Ben-Ben say?"
He groans,
fiddling with the glass in front of him. "You shouldn't be so hard on him,
Mark. He's a really nice guy, once you get to know him. Maybe if you'd just
take the time to –"
"To what?" I
nearly shout. Noting the glances from others in the café, I lower my voice to a
hushed whisper, leaning forward for the full effect. "I was fuckin' best
friends with the guy for years, y'know." Toby rolls his eyes, turning away a bit,
folding his arms. I shake my head distantly, comprehending what's missing –
something in Toby is gone now, and I can see this void in him: the same void
that's in Roger, and the same void that's in myself… I stand up slowly,
frowning gently as I move to walk away. "Tell Ben that I'm not remotely
interested in whatever deals he has to offer this time. You go have fun and
watch him suck the life out of you, too."
"Mark!" he
calls after me, jumping up to my side, making me want to reassure myself on my
condemning of him, because at this moment, he's like that little puppy he was
when we first met. "Where are you going?"
"I'm moving
out of the loft," I reply, shocked by my own words. When the hell did I plan
this? Hell…I didn't…
"What?!" he
cries, eyes wide in surprise. "Why?"
"I'm going back to Scarsdale."
"Why?" Oh
suddenly he's interested?
"To see my
family."
He nods
swiftly. "That should be nice."
"Yeah, I'm
sure my father's looking forward to it," I scoff, shaking my head.
"Should he not
be?"
I look strangely at Toby now,
wondering if I've ever explained about my family. No, it strikes me as normal
that I haven't. We were never close enough for me to do so, were we? Why tell a
stranger your deepest fears and secrets? I shrug, almost smiling at the irony
of it all – I'm here with someone who's not even close to a best friend, and
I've let the love of my life go three thousand miles away! I start to laugh,
mechanically at first and then more relaxed, as I realize what an idiot I am.
What a foolish, foolish moron you are Cohen. "Good luck with your career," I
remark, turning to leave.
"Hey, where
are you going?" he calls after me.
I shrug. "I
gotta move out before I think too much into a split-second decision that was
years in the making." I walk out, ignoring Toby's pleas for me to stay and
talk. Racing down towards the loft, I notice the construction on our—my
block, where the pavement is being destroyed, uplifted, and changed for the
better. Goddamn it, what isn't changing now? I hear Roger's voice in my
head as he pleaded with me last night to talk, and now Toby's voice that just
begged me to stay and talk. I don't want to talk. I don't want to think. I
don't want to stay here in this city. I just don't want… "Maureen?" my voice
cracks.
She stands
before me, those doe-eyes blinking in the innocence I used to find so
captivating and illustrious, but which now seem to have little to no effect on
me. She smiles sadly, twisting the bottom of her tie-dyed, skin-tight t-shirt
almost nervously, but with a sense of impatience, as if she's been waiting long
for this. "Can we talk?"
I nod,
slipping into old habits, like when I used to come at her beck and call.
"Sure." I gesture towards the loft, wondering what could posess such an
appearance after earlier today. Oh shit… How much do you wanna bet, Cohen, that
she wants to talk about Roger and you? I sigh, wondering how long a night
this'll be.
"Thought I'm
weak like I can't believe
So you tell me
'trust me' I can trust you; just let me show you
But I gotta work
it out in a shadow of doubt 'cause I don't know if I know you
Doing fine but
don't waste my time; tell me what it is you want to say
You sin, you win,
just let me in – hurry; I've been out in the rain all day
So you tell me
'trust me' I can trust you as far as I can throw you
And I'm trying to
get out of a shadow of doubt 'cause I don't know if I know you
Don't tell me you
wanted me – don't tell me you thought of me
I won't, I swear I
won't (Did)
I'll try, I swear
I'll try (Lie)"
Sitting across
from Maureen at the old rusted folding table, I cross my legs, watching her
squirm in the chair like she wants to get up and move. Really; why is she here?
To talk about Roger and I seems the most and least likely of answers.
She just doesn't seem the type that'd be so interested in hearing about how
Roger and I got to be the way we are—were. Then again, she's always been
the little chatterbox of a gossip, so maybe she just needs some more scraps of
scandal to hold her over for a while – always hungry for rumors, aren't we,
Maureen? In any rate, it makes me a bit uncomfortable to know that she sought
me out before I got the chance to do the same to her. I mean, given another
hour, I would've been pounding down her door to bawl my eyes out…or would I?
And where is Joanne, I do wonder?
"So…" I begin
with a small forced smile. "What brings you to my humble abode, milady?"
Her smile is
actually kind, and I am in awe of the simple beauty a smile can hold – I've
never seen her face that pretty. "Don't slip into formality with me, Marky,"
she coos, her whole appearance changing before I even got used to it. "Just
wanted to chat."
I lean back,
nodding. "Okay… So chat away."
"I never knew,
Mark."
"Knew what?"
"That you were
into guys." She grins, leaning on her elbows on the table, giving me that
famous stare that I find draws me in again.
"I'm not," I
reply softly, almost a whisper, trying (that's definitely the key word here) to
avert my eyes from that baby doll façade.
She laughs,
shaking her head, and I watch, as the wavy tendrils of her hair seem to dance
before me. "Joanne and I were there, honey; we saw the whole thing unfolding. I
mean, it was hard not to look with the way you two were acting." She
bites her lip gingerly in that playful manner that lights her eyes up. "It was
damn hot."
I groan,
bowing my head, trying to get rid of my blush. "Shut up, Maureen…"
"Aw, what's
the matter, Marky?" She reaches across the table, pinching my cheek. "You
always were adorable when you blushed."
I jerk free of
her grabby fingers, rubbing my crimson cheek. "What exactly did you want to
talk about?"
"You mean, you
don't want to talk about this?" Her eyes dance.
"No."
"Why not?" she
feigns a pout – excellently.
"Why would I
ever discuss my personal life with you?" I ask, raising my eyebrow
inquisitively.
She
straightens, her face saddening as she pushes out her bottom lip, making it
quiver. I stifle a growl at her – God, she's doing it to me again… "Well, I'm
hurt… I thought I'd be the one you'd run to in a time like this."
My face is a
bit angry now. "In a time like what?"
"Don't put on
that pretense with me, Mark Cohen!" she berates, pointing a finger at me,
huffing a bit. "I can see right through you."
I shrug,
faking confusion. "What pretense would that be, darling?"
"Don't you
darling me…"
I sigh. "Look,
what do you want? Do you want me to say I'm in love with Roger? That I'm gay?
That I've been in love with him for as long as I can remember? Or what?"
Her face
becomes normal again as she stares at me, smirking gently, almost pleasantly.
"All of the above."
"Oh fuck!" I
cry, dropping my head onto the table with a bang that makes me regret that
action immediately. I quickly cover my head with my arms, encasing my features
in a dark tomb, so she can't see them.
"Aw, it's not
so bad as that," she whispers. I hear the chair squeak and then the gentle
pressure of her arm lying across my back, rubbing soothing caresses there. "I
can teach you a thing or two about same-sex relationships," she giggles, prying
my arms away and turning my face to her, as I'm helpless to resist. "Besides,
you and Roger make sense. I've always seen it – especially when I went to see
your movies. You bare your every self on the screen for those agonizing
minutes, and sometimes I think you're so brave for doing that."
My eyes
tighten in bewilderment. Why is she being like this? I sit up slightly, but
notice her hands are still holding my face quite gently – tenderness I'm
falling into, like a hopeless void: she's molding me like the bowl of Jell-O I
am. "Really?"
She smiles,
running her fingers through my hair, tousling it a bit in the process.
"Really."
I'm rendered
speechless for a few moments, while I collect what thoughts stray through my
mind. Then, I lean back; slipping out of her touch, I realize the blush has
only doubled on my cheeks. "So, why are you here? To talk about what happened
earlier or to compliment me?"
"A little bit
of both… And, to tell you that if you need me, I'm here." She lays her hand on
mine, and my eyes are drawn to the contact immediately.
"W-Why would I
–"
"I know what
it's like to lose someone you really love, Mark. Don't hold back if you need to
talk or think aloud or…cry."
I jerk my hand
free, fumbling to my feet. "I'm not going to cry."
"Why not?" she
asks, puzzled.
I shoot her a
glare. "Why not!?" I scoff. "Why?"
She stands up,
gazing at me with concerned eyes. "Sometimes it's worse to sit there and not
let it all out."
My brow
furrows angrily. "Since when did you become an expert on emotional restraint?"
The corners of
her lips lift to form a sarcastic smile. "Pushing your sadness into insults,
hm? First stage is denial, my dear."
I roll my
eyes, throwing my arms in the air out of pure disgust. "Denial of what?!"
"That you miss
him." She pokes my chest, her whole face becoming one big mockery of me. "Don't
tell me you don't want to cry your eyes out." She smirks, pinching my stomach.
"You're beginning to sound like Roger."
"Am not," I
whimper between laughs as the prodding turns to tickling. Shoving her hands
away, I jump back, wrapping my arms around myself to ward off any further
onslaughts. "Now stop that," I demand weakly, eyeing her from a few safe steps
away. "If you want to be serious, be serious. If not, don't. I can't stand this
back and forth crap."
She wrinkles
her nose most unattractively, sauntering towards me with this gleam of
seduction in her eyes and I soon find my back against the wall as she stands
directly before me. "With the way you're acting, anyone else would assume that
you don't even miss him."
"And you don't
buy that, I take it?" I ask tentatively, scrunching my whole form up against
the wall, trying to weasel my way back farther, despite the fact that I know I
can't. "Besides, 'anyone else' is wrong."
"So you're
admitting you're lonely?"
"I've never
denied that," I retort, swallowing as she presses up against me. "I mean…I-I've
always been lonely. Everyone knows that…"
"But you're
broken, now that Roger's gone," she states, matter-of-factly, as if she
couldn't care less about my answer. Her eyes are almost sad as they meet mine.
"Talk to me."
I feel the
tears, pricking their way to the fronts of my eyes, but I clench my jaw,
setting myself up for more repression. "About what?"
Her shoulders
droop as she shakes her head. "About Roger. When you ran off and then Roger
followed you around the corner, Joanne and I peeked to see if you two were
okay, and –"
"You didn't!"
My eyes grow wide.
"Yes, we saw
the whole thing, and by that I mean everything." She curls a lock of my
hair in her slender finger, twirling it with a smile. "I thought he was gonna
jump you right then and there."
I push her
away swiftly, fixing my hair as I make a loud noise of revulsion. "Not
everything is about sex, Maureen."
"Aw, I was
just kidding with you, Mark." She laughs, touching my shoulder. "I'm very
serious about you talking it through with me, though. I couldn't be more
genuine about that."
"Again, I have
to ask…talk about what?" I rage, spinning around to face her. "I'm fine!
Do you not understand that? I'm fine! F-I-N-E."
"So that's why
you're screaming at me?" she continues calmly, placing her hand on her hip
nonchalantly.
I sigh,
dropping into the folding chair. "I'm not screaming at you."
"You were."
She smirks, sitting beside me. "Come on, Mark… It's not everyday I drop the
façade and ask you to share your most intimate feelings, so take me up on this
offer before you explode."
I groan. "I'm
just…I'm not in the mood to talk today, okay? It's not that I don't want to;
it's just that I can't."
"Why not?"
"If I talk
about it, I'll get sad and regretful and hopelessly miserably depressed, and as
much as I know you'd like to see me bawl my eyes out on your shoulder, I'm not
in the mood for another regression."
"It doesn't
have to be like that." She cocks her head thoughtfully. "We used to talk."
"Not
about…well, not about anything like this." I sigh, my eyes tiring as I rub
them. "Maureen, we used to talk about what kind of popcorn to buy at the movies
– not what do you do when the only person who's ever loved you walks out on
you."
She nods. "We
can start talking about that now, can't we?"
I look up,
starting to shake my head to deny her any answer at all besides the negative
gesture, but I stop cold – that look in her eyes is one I haven't seen for a
long time. I saw it when April died. I saw it when Angel died. I saw it, even
in my delusional state-of-mind, when Collins died. I even saw it, flickering
just slightly below the surface, when Roger left this morning. It's that tiny
shimmer of light that shines just out of anyone's reach. It's that minuscule
glimmer of love and sympathy that you see so little of in Maureen's bright eyes
on any normal occasion. It's there when she feels something for someone else;
when she puts aside her own misfortunes and gives every piece of herself to
those who need her most. It's there when she shoves her pride away and comforts
those in need, even though she may be experiencing her own sort of tragedy. I'm
almost rendered speechless by that expression.
"Don't look so
shocked, Mark," she continues with a smile. "How many times a day do people
tell you to stop thinking?"
I release a
breath of air, disguised as a sort of half-laugh. "Too many?"
"So, take
their advice." She again lays her hand on my shoulder. "Just talk to me."
The tears come
of their own accord, without my even having to will them free of their
restraints, and they cascade swiftly like a raging waterfall down my scarlet
cheeks. My eyes, already puffy from all the sobbing and whining from the past
few days – hell, all my life – become red and blurry as I fall into her
suddenly glorious embrace. Her arms close in around me as we sort of fumble off
the chairs to the floor, where I find solace in arms that once repulsed me and
words that never had been uttered to my deprived ears. "God, Maureen… I love
him. I fuckin' love him," I whisper between the tears, burying my face in her
chest, my arms falling limp at my sides.
"Shh, I know,
honey," she replies just as softly, fingers combing through my hair in a
massage-like manner that I have missed so much since we used to date. "Just
tell me, why didn't you go with him? He was all but begging you…"
"He did beg…
Fuck, Maureen, he pleaded and he cried against my shoulder… But I just… I don't
know why, but I can't – I couldn't…" I look up into her eyes, wrapping my arms
loosely around her. "Why didn't he stay?"
She smiles
sadly, fingertips sweeping stray tears away with a ghosting touch that sends chills
down my spine. "Same reason, maybe?"
I frown,
resting my head against her shoulder, eyes dancing with water. "Why can't I go
to Santa Fe?" I ponder aloud, not really expecting any sort of answer from her.
"Why the fuck can't I leave?"
She caresses my
back gently, a forefinger tracing my spine. "Maybe you're scared."
I open my
mouth to retort something, but nothing is spoken by me – instead a sob breaks
through. Sniffling, I clutch her warm body against mine. "Everyone is scared."
"You're scared
to be happy."
"What?" I cry,
breaking our embrace to look up at her with wide eyes. "That's not even –"
"Don't even
say it, Mark. You know it's true. You used to tell me what your father did to
you and your mother; then, along came me, and I broke your heart; then, here
comes Angel and you finally find someone who lives life like you want to, and
she is taken away; then Collins tells you he loves you as he dies in your arms;
and now, you find the one person you are destined to cherish for the rest of
your life and you ruin it purposely, just because you're afraid to lose him."
I push her
away, shouting, "That's not why I –"
"Yes, it is,
Mark!" she continues, grabbing my arm to halt me in place. "He's dying."
"Fuck you. You
don't –"
"He's dying,
Mark," she whispers as her solemn eyes hold mine in a horribly somber stare.
"And you can't stand it." I freeze in place, my whole body trembling in
unspoken grief. Fuck her. What does she know? "You're afraid to move to Santa
Fe, because Roger is there."
"That's
ridiculous!" I cry, tearing my gaze away from her, looking anywhere but
straight at her. "You're wrong."
"No, I'm not.
For once, I'm completely in the right. Look, if there's one thing I know a lot
about, Mark, it's love and romance. I know you better than most people do.
Roger knows you better, but I still understand how that mind of yours works –
how you push everything on yourself when things go astray. You love Roger, but
you can't stand the fact that he'll leave you forever when AIDS catches up with
him."
"Fuck –"
"You don't
want to be loved and left like that again, do you, Mark? You don't want to
watch him fade away, when he was once so strong, right? You don't want to see
his own body beat him and kill him, slowly and deliberately. It's the truth,
and you know it."
I fumble for
words, tearing away from her to stand up to my feet. "Y'know what? It doesn't
even fucking matter anymore, Maureen. We talked. There, are you happy? You and
I connected! So, go off back to Joanne and try to work your psychology bullshit
on her, okay? Because, I've fucking had enough of it." I pause to catch my
breath. "You're wrong. I can't tell you how wrong you are, but you are… I'm
afraid of so much, but not that."
She stands up
as well, looking at me with that condescending glare. "Fine. Then tell me why
you didn't go with him."
I turn away,
unable to answer and bow my head. "I don't know." I pause for a moment and then
glance back at her. "I'm moving out tomorrow…"
"What?"
"I'm taking a
trip back home to Scarsdale. I think it'll be good for me."
"Good for you?
Fuck, Mark, you know that'll only screw you up further!"
"I didn't tell
you because I needed to be scolded, Maureen," I growl. "I just wanted to let
you know that I won't be coming back…at least, not to the loft."
She rolls her
eyes. "That's right. Run away from your problems. That'll solve everything."
I walk towards
the bedroom. "I gotta get things packed. I would demand you leave, but you
never listen to me anyway." I slam the door behind me, locking it and falling
down to the floor to weed through my clothes, reaching over to drag out a
suitcase. Tomorrow, I'll never have to think of these memories again. Tomorrow,
everything will be okay. Tomorrow…
