A/N: 04-30-02—In response to the reviews, which are so very much
appreciated, by the way:
*hands out boxes of Captain Crunch to everyone who guessed* Incidentally, erato227—if you want milk to go along with yours, you'll have to update "Asleep Inside You". To think you have the audacity to lament the current lack of Rentfic. :P Go! Write! NOW!
LimeLightGoddess—Totally agree about Kevin. YUM!!!! Email me and we'll discuss him. :)
Incidentally, everyone, just thought I'd share—this site has some awesome clips and bloopers; my friend and I laughed very hard: http://members.tripod.com/punky_7/
Disclaimer: These characters are not mine. I keep asking J.L. if he'll sell them to me—maybe even just Marky—but he says the rest of the community would miss them too much. ;)
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3.
It was evident from Mark's conversation with Maureen, or at least the part I could hear, that nothing had changed between them in the last six months, except for the better.
"Maureen, it's me. No. I don't know. No, she didn't call to complain about you. Yes, Maureen... yes, Maureen."
He paused long enough for emphasis, rolling his eyes at me in hopes of gaining some sympathy. I simply shrugged impishly, raising my eyebrows as if to say, "That's Maureen," and finished off my cheese.
"Yes," he went on, shamelessly monotonous. "Joanne is evil and you should leave her immediately." A puckish, knowing grin in my direction. "I'm kidding. Hey, guess what. Roger's here." He held the phone at arm's length as she squealed in shock, then gingerly brought it back to his ear. "Why don't you both come later tonight? I'm going to call Collins, and then we can all—" His thoughts were put on hold, and finally abandoned, as she chattered away on the other line. "Uh-huh. Okay then."
Very relieved to rid his hand of the receiver, he dropped it onto the hook as though it were a time bomb, and turned back to me. "She's coming over right now."
I nodded, a grin forcing its way across my lips. I should have expected as much.
As the minutes ticked by, Mark, I noticed, was growing unusually fidgety. He would hide his hands in his pockets, then remove them and examine his knuckles, then flop them down at his side. It was almost as if he had two extra arms that he had no idea what to do with. He was much easier to observe, I realized, when he wasn't pointing a camera at you.
He seemed incomplete without it, almost defenseless. And without it as his preoccupation, he was quick to notice I was staring. "What?"
"Wish you could capture it on film?" I offered.
He nodded with a small smile, embarrassed but relieved to admit it.
Maureen's presence was detected far ahead of the time she actually set foot in the building. I could hear her scrambling outside towards our door and bounding up the stairs. Mark had discreetly stepped over to the door and unlocked it some minutes earlier, so when she came flying through the door, we wouldn't end up with a giant hole in the wall.
She burst in as expected, and stood there awkwardly, planted firmly in one spot as if to say, "Which way to the stage?" I almost had to laugh.
"What the hell..." I half-chuckled, half-gasped. Her usually blonde curls now appeared to be the result of a... shall we say, experimental dye job. Not quite red, not quite purple...a hint of blue, even? Couldn't have been more cheesy, at any rate, but I thought it was kind of sexy. Not that I would ever tell her that.
That unforgettable, possessive, strong-willed smile spread until she glowed, lighting up the rest of the room along with her, but there was little time to appreciate it as she bounded across the room and threw herself into my arms, nearly knocking me over backwards.
I returned her over-enthused embrace as best I could on such short notice, spun her around and set her down, holding her at arm's length to fully appreciate this new hair (a bold move on her part—didn't I make enough fun of her already?), and every other essence that was pure and utter Maureen- ness. She couldn't stop smiling. That was fine with me.
Sometimes I envy Joanne.
...I didn't say that out loud, did I? No. Good.
Her smile was contagious, but I barely had time to return it before she started. Started *what* exactly is irrelevant—just... started. You know what I'm talking about.
"MARK!" she screeched, spinning around to face him. "How long has he been here? Why didn't you tell me sooner?"
Mark opened his mouth to say something, then, defeated, glanced at me and shrugged helplessly. "I just got here," I told her. "Nice hair."
"I know," she grinned, fluffing a few curls with her fingertips. "Joanne hates it."
"Ohhh, here it comes," Mark mumbled under his breath, pretending to collapse against the wall.
Maureen chose to see this not an insult, but rather an invitation to continue. "I just don't see why she has to be so—"
"I'm going to give Collins a call," Mark announced, diving for the phone and leaving me to deal with Joanne-related complaints. "He'd hate to miss this."
I listened patiently for several minutes as she scanned the events of her life in the past six months—since, of course, that's just what I'd been dying to hear ever since I came home... (he said with sarcasm dripping from his lips.) About the audition she had for Cabaret, and how her callback was tomorrow, and how Mimi had invited her to the club one night, and they ended up making five hundred dollars in tips. I did not want to know how, and thankfully, she didn't tell me.
She concluded just as she'd started, with a flourish about Joanne's latest pet peeve: untraditional hair colors.
"Anyhow," she sighed, patting my arm. "Tell me where the hell you've been all this time."
"Well..." I shrugged. "Santa Fe, mostly."
"Come on," she whined. "Details. I think we—" She stopped, mid-sentence... very unlike her to fall silent so willingly.
A wave of sudden realization spread across her face and she turned around to Mark, who appeared to be making dinner. I couldn't tell exactly, since I wasn't used to seeing him make much of anything. Our dinners had never been anything that required 'making'
"Mark..." she prompted.
He glanced up innocently from his bowl. "What?"
"Where's Mimi?" It wasn't the casual question it should have been, but obviously seemed to carry a much deeper inquiry.
"At work," he answered in an identical tone, staring at her unwaveringly, making it clear that this was the end of the discussion. Apparently I had missed something.
"Don't tell me you and Mimi are fighting now too," I teased.
She turned back to me, almost surprised that I was still there, and gave what felt like a forced smile. Maureen never gave forced smiles. If she was happy, everyone knew it. If she wasn't... everyone knew it then, too.
"No," she answered slowly. "Of course not."
A few silent moments passed before she continued firing questions about Santa Fe, but it was obvious that a tiny bit of her vivacity had diminished. From the kitchen, Mark occasionally looked up from whatever he was doing, pretending to be busy, but I knew he was more than eager to hear everything that had gone on for the past six months. I was obviously disappointing him, however, managing to answer only the questions Maureen was most insistent on, such as where I'd stayed and how many women I'd hooked up with.
It was good to be home.
~ ~ ~
"Galimatias?!" Maureen squealed. "No way is that a word."
"Look it up," Joanne retorted.
"Define it!"
"Fine: pretty much everything that's left your mouth tonight, Honeybear."
Maureen shot eye daggers and grabbed the pitifully small pocket dictionary from me, paging through it furiously. "HA! It's not in here!"
Collins, though certainly reluctant to do anything that would put him on Maureen's bad side, couldn't resist. "It's a word," he informed us, marching over to the kitchen and pulling a large, worn hardcover book out of an obscured cupboard.
"That's a *dictionary*?" Mark asked in disbelief. "I never bothered to open it."
"I always thought it was a phone book," I chimed in.
Collins smiled at us, rolling his eyes, brought the giant book to our circle, and sat down. "Galimatias," he repeated, reading off a page. "Incoherent or nonsensical talk."
"Shit!!" Maureen yelped. Joanne laughed a wicked laugh. Collins snapped the book shut, watching them amusedly.
"What do you expect, the way we play?" Joanne grinned. "Who ever heard of Unlimited-Letter-Supply Scrabble?"
"It's better than Strip Scrabble," Mark pointed out, glaring at Maureen, who offered a mischievous wink.
I was content to remain an observer for the greater part of the evening, watching the members of our odd little family, settled around in a circle on the living room floor of the loft. Maureen, sitting contentedly on Mark's lap and stealing his letters when she felt the urge. Joanne and Collins, who, especially upon discovery of the omniscient dictionary, were so obviously conspiring to create the most complex words imaginable. And Mark, trapped by Maureen but enjoying it as much as he ever had, stopping every few minutes to glance across the circle at me and smile.
I wondered how it was that only four days ago I had been in Santa Fe. How only this morning I had been in a cheap motel in Ohio. And how tonight, we were all sitting here on ragged old throw pillows, together again.
Well, almost all of us. I couldn't help but realize we would always be incomplete without Angel, who had in fact invented Unlimited-Letter-Supply Scrabble; and Mimi, who always won the prize for spelling out more dirty words than anyone else... and whom everyone seemed to be asking about tonight. Even me. Shouldn't we wait until she gets home from work? Wouldn't she want to be here for this?
But Mark, time and again, stated that he didn't think she would be quite up to this tonight.
It was about nine o'clock when everyone finally cleared out. Maureen was still arguing about some word Joanne had created, so as everyone was heading towards the front door, she planted a huge kiss on Collins, who blinked a few times, shook his head thoughtfully, trying not to laugh, and went along his merry way. Joanne cleverly noted how that meant nothing; Collins was gay. Refusing to be defeated, Maureen spotted Mark across the room and lunged for him. He ducked behind me. This didn't faze her even slightly; she kissed me instead.
I pushed her away, whined that I got hair dye in my mouth, and waved off apologies from Joanne as I did my best to keep a straight face.
The loft grew immensely soundless the moment our company was reduced to two. I don't know why I was surprised; Mark was always the quiet one, and although I was a shameless pessimist with a temper, I usually wasn't all that talkative either. It just felt strange to be home... really home.
I watched from the wall, leaning against the door, as Mark proceeded to empty the Scrabble letters into the little plastic bag. But he stopped, staring at the board closely for what felt, to an onlooker, like a very long time.
"What is it?" I asked, walking over and following his gaze to the half- cleared board.
"Nothing," he answered quickly, snapping out of his concentration as he became suddenly aware of my presence, and sweeping the rest letter blocks into the bag.
He hadn't been quick enough, though, as I spotted what had been spelled out on the board:
"MARKY—(a sideways "I" as the dash) TELL HIM"
I looked up at my roommate, who seemed suddenly very interested in fitting the game pieces back in the box. "Tell me what?" I demanded.
"What?"
"The board."
"I don't know. Maureen's weird."
I let it go at this. Whenever I didn't want to talk, he knew when to leave me alone. I figured it was my turn to return the favor. Mark rarely kept anything from me, but this was obviously his business, and he would tell me when he was damn good and ready. Either that, or it really was nothing at all.
But I knew better.
Mark grabbed his coat and keys. "I'm going to work to pick up my camera. Should be back in about an hour."
"Okay. Here." I tossed him my keys. They flew past him, as I knew they would. He reached over to pick them up. "We have a car now, you know," I added with a smile.
His face lit up, just a little bit. "Right. Thanks."
Even though the noise level hadn't really changed, the loft seemed even more lonely and silent without him. I spent the first half hour with my guitar, tuning it, cursing at it when it wouldn't tune, experimenting with a few different riffs in my song, perfecting some parts I wasn't sure about... and in general feeling ecstatic that I was simply back home, playing my guitar.
After some time, I placed it safely back in its case, realizing I hadn't been in my room once since I returned, and suddenly a little curious as to what effect time had had on it. It was exactly the same way I'd left it. The door had been closed, and it had the very distinct smell of long-time abandonment. Even the t-shirt I'd flung over the back of a chair before I left was still there. The photo of Mimi and me on our six-month anniversary was still on the bedside. To be honest, I didn't think anyone had even opened this door since I'd left.
Mark's room, upon further boredom-induced exploration, seemed more lived-in than even the living room. He was a strange guy; half the time his room would be so tidy you were afraid to breathe, and other times—like now—it was so full of misplaced clothes and film reels that you could barely find a spot of carpet to step on.
I found an accessible item on the dresser and picked it up. It was a roll of film, recently developed, as I noted from the package it came in. From the top photo of a cake that read "Happy Birthday Mimi", it didn't take much to guess the occasion.
Our gang always took the most interesting photos; I had to give them that. The first few involved Mark and Maureen fighting over some kind of... ah, it was a box of matches. Hmm. It must have been a very special box, because as the photos progressed, so did their levels of aggression, finally resulting with Mark on the floor, and Maureen standing over him with a giant couch cushion raised menacingly above her head.
My smile faded rapidly as I first spotted Benny in a photo. Benny... why was he here? Why the hell was he at her birthday party? My anger only increased as no one else in the photos seemed to have the qualms about it that I did. He was seen, smiling, no less, with Mark at the table, Maureen on the couch (still holding her giant cushion and a matchbox, triumphantly), and Mimi in the kitchen. She had her arms around him.
I should have known.
I tried to put it out of my mind and enjoy the rest of the roll. Joanne and Collins performing what appeared to be a duet—neither one looking very enthusiastic; I assumed a certain drama queen had put them up to it. And a final one of Mark sitting on the couch, with Mimi curled up on his lap, laughing about something.
The front door opened; I quickly slid the pictures back into the envelope and scampered out of his room. He was just coming through the door, camera first, and the rest of him followed—he panned towards my footsteps and brought me into focus.
I chuckled. "Now you look a little more familiar."
"First shot Roger," he announced. "He's home. April 29th, ten p.m., Eastern Standard Time." He paused, lowering the camera. "Where's Mimi?"
A shrug, more nervous than usual—I hadn't had a camera on me in six months. "Still at work, I guess."
Mark switched the camera off, shifting his attention entirely, and shook his head. "She's always home by ten."
As one who hadn't been informed of or accustomed to any of their recent schedules, I just shrugged again, helpless. Clutching his camera protectively, he crossed the room to the kitchen counter and reached for the phone, punching a single button. I never knew we had speed dial.
"Kate, it's Mark. Is Mimi there?" Silence. "Well, when did she leave?" A far more deafening silence, which seemed to squelch his voice almost entirely. "Thanks."
The receiver dropped to its hook listlessly.
"What?" I asked. "What's going on?"
His face, naturally fair-toned, had whitened completely. "She's not there. She hasn't been there all day."
I wasn't sure why that sick feeling in my stomach crept up on me like it did; after all, this was Mimi—no matter what Mark said, I never knew her to be home by ten. Hell, usually she was *still* home at ten. Her fun started at midnight.
Then again, she'd lied to me. That could not be good. Oh, very sharp observation, Roger.
Mark turned back to the phone as though it were the enemy. "I... I'm calling..." He never finished, but punched another button. "Maureen. Is Mimi there? ...No reason." Brief silence. "Well if she were *here*, then I wouldn't be asking if she were *there*, now would I?! God, Maureen. Just tell me if you hear from her."
He tried to hang up, but from the tone of his voice and his rising irritation, she was insisting on asking more stupid questions. I toned them out after awhile, lost in my own newfound worries. All I remember was Mark telling her to stop crying, everything was fine... and then hanging up.
The phone no longer seemed to be an enemy, but rather a savior. Anything, after all, would be better than the silence that was choking us now.
"She's always back by ten," Mark repeated, almost to himself. "You—you don't—you haven't—things are different, Roge."
"Mark, what's going on?"
I was relieved that this at least forced him to look at me, but only more agitated when he shook his head absentmindedly. "Nothing."
"I'm going to look for her."
Although I hadn't even taken one step, Mark ran to my side and put his hand on my arm, as though I were halfway to the door. "No. I'll go."
I moved away and grabbed my jacket. "No. She's my girlfriend. *I'll* go."
He seemed not content with this, but somehow defeated. My reason seemed legitimate enough for him, at any rate, and he stood motionless in the middle of the room. I muttered a quick farewell of "We'll be back," and vanished.
[Review if you want more. :P]
*hands out boxes of Captain Crunch to everyone who guessed* Incidentally, erato227—if you want milk to go along with yours, you'll have to update "Asleep Inside You". To think you have the audacity to lament the current lack of Rentfic. :P Go! Write! NOW!
LimeLightGoddess—Totally agree about Kevin. YUM!!!! Email me and we'll discuss him. :)
Incidentally, everyone, just thought I'd share—this site has some awesome clips and bloopers; my friend and I laughed very hard: http://members.tripod.com/punky_7/
Disclaimer: These characters are not mine. I keep asking J.L. if he'll sell them to me—maybe even just Marky—but he says the rest of the community would miss them too much. ;)
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3.
It was evident from Mark's conversation with Maureen, or at least the part I could hear, that nothing had changed between them in the last six months, except for the better.
"Maureen, it's me. No. I don't know. No, she didn't call to complain about you. Yes, Maureen... yes, Maureen."
He paused long enough for emphasis, rolling his eyes at me in hopes of gaining some sympathy. I simply shrugged impishly, raising my eyebrows as if to say, "That's Maureen," and finished off my cheese.
"Yes," he went on, shamelessly monotonous. "Joanne is evil and you should leave her immediately." A puckish, knowing grin in my direction. "I'm kidding. Hey, guess what. Roger's here." He held the phone at arm's length as she squealed in shock, then gingerly brought it back to his ear. "Why don't you both come later tonight? I'm going to call Collins, and then we can all—" His thoughts were put on hold, and finally abandoned, as she chattered away on the other line. "Uh-huh. Okay then."
Very relieved to rid his hand of the receiver, he dropped it onto the hook as though it were a time bomb, and turned back to me. "She's coming over right now."
I nodded, a grin forcing its way across my lips. I should have expected as much.
As the minutes ticked by, Mark, I noticed, was growing unusually fidgety. He would hide his hands in his pockets, then remove them and examine his knuckles, then flop them down at his side. It was almost as if he had two extra arms that he had no idea what to do with. He was much easier to observe, I realized, when he wasn't pointing a camera at you.
He seemed incomplete without it, almost defenseless. And without it as his preoccupation, he was quick to notice I was staring. "What?"
"Wish you could capture it on film?" I offered.
He nodded with a small smile, embarrassed but relieved to admit it.
Maureen's presence was detected far ahead of the time she actually set foot in the building. I could hear her scrambling outside towards our door and bounding up the stairs. Mark had discreetly stepped over to the door and unlocked it some minutes earlier, so when she came flying through the door, we wouldn't end up with a giant hole in the wall.
She burst in as expected, and stood there awkwardly, planted firmly in one spot as if to say, "Which way to the stage?" I almost had to laugh.
"What the hell..." I half-chuckled, half-gasped. Her usually blonde curls now appeared to be the result of a... shall we say, experimental dye job. Not quite red, not quite purple...a hint of blue, even? Couldn't have been more cheesy, at any rate, but I thought it was kind of sexy. Not that I would ever tell her that.
That unforgettable, possessive, strong-willed smile spread until she glowed, lighting up the rest of the room along with her, but there was little time to appreciate it as she bounded across the room and threw herself into my arms, nearly knocking me over backwards.
I returned her over-enthused embrace as best I could on such short notice, spun her around and set her down, holding her at arm's length to fully appreciate this new hair (a bold move on her part—didn't I make enough fun of her already?), and every other essence that was pure and utter Maureen- ness. She couldn't stop smiling. That was fine with me.
Sometimes I envy Joanne.
...I didn't say that out loud, did I? No. Good.
Her smile was contagious, but I barely had time to return it before she started. Started *what* exactly is irrelevant—just... started. You know what I'm talking about.
"MARK!" she screeched, spinning around to face him. "How long has he been here? Why didn't you tell me sooner?"
Mark opened his mouth to say something, then, defeated, glanced at me and shrugged helplessly. "I just got here," I told her. "Nice hair."
"I know," she grinned, fluffing a few curls with her fingertips. "Joanne hates it."
"Ohhh, here it comes," Mark mumbled under his breath, pretending to collapse against the wall.
Maureen chose to see this not an insult, but rather an invitation to continue. "I just don't see why she has to be so—"
"I'm going to give Collins a call," Mark announced, diving for the phone and leaving me to deal with Joanne-related complaints. "He'd hate to miss this."
I listened patiently for several minutes as she scanned the events of her life in the past six months—since, of course, that's just what I'd been dying to hear ever since I came home... (he said with sarcasm dripping from his lips.) About the audition she had for Cabaret, and how her callback was tomorrow, and how Mimi had invited her to the club one night, and they ended up making five hundred dollars in tips. I did not want to know how, and thankfully, she didn't tell me.
She concluded just as she'd started, with a flourish about Joanne's latest pet peeve: untraditional hair colors.
"Anyhow," she sighed, patting my arm. "Tell me where the hell you've been all this time."
"Well..." I shrugged. "Santa Fe, mostly."
"Come on," she whined. "Details. I think we—" She stopped, mid-sentence... very unlike her to fall silent so willingly.
A wave of sudden realization spread across her face and she turned around to Mark, who appeared to be making dinner. I couldn't tell exactly, since I wasn't used to seeing him make much of anything. Our dinners had never been anything that required 'making'
"Mark..." she prompted.
He glanced up innocently from his bowl. "What?"
"Where's Mimi?" It wasn't the casual question it should have been, but obviously seemed to carry a much deeper inquiry.
"At work," he answered in an identical tone, staring at her unwaveringly, making it clear that this was the end of the discussion. Apparently I had missed something.
"Don't tell me you and Mimi are fighting now too," I teased.
She turned back to me, almost surprised that I was still there, and gave what felt like a forced smile. Maureen never gave forced smiles. If she was happy, everyone knew it. If she wasn't... everyone knew it then, too.
"No," she answered slowly. "Of course not."
A few silent moments passed before she continued firing questions about Santa Fe, but it was obvious that a tiny bit of her vivacity had diminished. From the kitchen, Mark occasionally looked up from whatever he was doing, pretending to be busy, but I knew he was more than eager to hear everything that had gone on for the past six months. I was obviously disappointing him, however, managing to answer only the questions Maureen was most insistent on, such as where I'd stayed and how many women I'd hooked up with.
It was good to be home.
~ ~ ~
"Galimatias?!" Maureen squealed. "No way is that a word."
"Look it up," Joanne retorted.
"Define it!"
"Fine: pretty much everything that's left your mouth tonight, Honeybear."
Maureen shot eye daggers and grabbed the pitifully small pocket dictionary from me, paging through it furiously. "HA! It's not in here!"
Collins, though certainly reluctant to do anything that would put him on Maureen's bad side, couldn't resist. "It's a word," he informed us, marching over to the kitchen and pulling a large, worn hardcover book out of an obscured cupboard.
"That's a *dictionary*?" Mark asked in disbelief. "I never bothered to open it."
"I always thought it was a phone book," I chimed in.
Collins smiled at us, rolling his eyes, brought the giant book to our circle, and sat down. "Galimatias," he repeated, reading off a page. "Incoherent or nonsensical talk."
"Shit!!" Maureen yelped. Joanne laughed a wicked laugh. Collins snapped the book shut, watching them amusedly.
"What do you expect, the way we play?" Joanne grinned. "Who ever heard of Unlimited-Letter-Supply Scrabble?"
"It's better than Strip Scrabble," Mark pointed out, glaring at Maureen, who offered a mischievous wink.
I was content to remain an observer for the greater part of the evening, watching the members of our odd little family, settled around in a circle on the living room floor of the loft. Maureen, sitting contentedly on Mark's lap and stealing his letters when she felt the urge. Joanne and Collins, who, especially upon discovery of the omniscient dictionary, were so obviously conspiring to create the most complex words imaginable. And Mark, trapped by Maureen but enjoying it as much as he ever had, stopping every few minutes to glance across the circle at me and smile.
I wondered how it was that only four days ago I had been in Santa Fe. How only this morning I had been in a cheap motel in Ohio. And how tonight, we were all sitting here on ragged old throw pillows, together again.
Well, almost all of us. I couldn't help but realize we would always be incomplete without Angel, who had in fact invented Unlimited-Letter-Supply Scrabble; and Mimi, who always won the prize for spelling out more dirty words than anyone else... and whom everyone seemed to be asking about tonight. Even me. Shouldn't we wait until she gets home from work? Wouldn't she want to be here for this?
But Mark, time and again, stated that he didn't think she would be quite up to this tonight.
It was about nine o'clock when everyone finally cleared out. Maureen was still arguing about some word Joanne had created, so as everyone was heading towards the front door, she planted a huge kiss on Collins, who blinked a few times, shook his head thoughtfully, trying not to laugh, and went along his merry way. Joanne cleverly noted how that meant nothing; Collins was gay. Refusing to be defeated, Maureen spotted Mark across the room and lunged for him. He ducked behind me. This didn't faze her even slightly; she kissed me instead.
I pushed her away, whined that I got hair dye in my mouth, and waved off apologies from Joanne as I did my best to keep a straight face.
The loft grew immensely soundless the moment our company was reduced to two. I don't know why I was surprised; Mark was always the quiet one, and although I was a shameless pessimist with a temper, I usually wasn't all that talkative either. It just felt strange to be home... really home.
I watched from the wall, leaning against the door, as Mark proceeded to empty the Scrabble letters into the little plastic bag. But he stopped, staring at the board closely for what felt, to an onlooker, like a very long time.
"What is it?" I asked, walking over and following his gaze to the half- cleared board.
"Nothing," he answered quickly, snapping out of his concentration as he became suddenly aware of my presence, and sweeping the rest letter blocks into the bag.
He hadn't been quick enough, though, as I spotted what had been spelled out on the board:
"MARKY—(a sideways "I" as the dash) TELL HIM"
I looked up at my roommate, who seemed suddenly very interested in fitting the game pieces back in the box. "Tell me what?" I demanded.
"What?"
"The board."
"I don't know. Maureen's weird."
I let it go at this. Whenever I didn't want to talk, he knew when to leave me alone. I figured it was my turn to return the favor. Mark rarely kept anything from me, but this was obviously his business, and he would tell me when he was damn good and ready. Either that, or it really was nothing at all.
But I knew better.
Mark grabbed his coat and keys. "I'm going to work to pick up my camera. Should be back in about an hour."
"Okay. Here." I tossed him my keys. They flew past him, as I knew they would. He reached over to pick them up. "We have a car now, you know," I added with a smile.
His face lit up, just a little bit. "Right. Thanks."
Even though the noise level hadn't really changed, the loft seemed even more lonely and silent without him. I spent the first half hour with my guitar, tuning it, cursing at it when it wouldn't tune, experimenting with a few different riffs in my song, perfecting some parts I wasn't sure about... and in general feeling ecstatic that I was simply back home, playing my guitar.
After some time, I placed it safely back in its case, realizing I hadn't been in my room once since I returned, and suddenly a little curious as to what effect time had had on it. It was exactly the same way I'd left it. The door had been closed, and it had the very distinct smell of long-time abandonment. Even the t-shirt I'd flung over the back of a chair before I left was still there. The photo of Mimi and me on our six-month anniversary was still on the bedside. To be honest, I didn't think anyone had even opened this door since I'd left.
Mark's room, upon further boredom-induced exploration, seemed more lived-in than even the living room. He was a strange guy; half the time his room would be so tidy you were afraid to breathe, and other times—like now—it was so full of misplaced clothes and film reels that you could barely find a spot of carpet to step on.
I found an accessible item on the dresser and picked it up. It was a roll of film, recently developed, as I noted from the package it came in. From the top photo of a cake that read "Happy Birthday Mimi", it didn't take much to guess the occasion.
Our gang always took the most interesting photos; I had to give them that. The first few involved Mark and Maureen fighting over some kind of... ah, it was a box of matches. Hmm. It must have been a very special box, because as the photos progressed, so did their levels of aggression, finally resulting with Mark on the floor, and Maureen standing over him with a giant couch cushion raised menacingly above her head.
My smile faded rapidly as I first spotted Benny in a photo. Benny... why was he here? Why the hell was he at her birthday party? My anger only increased as no one else in the photos seemed to have the qualms about it that I did. He was seen, smiling, no less, with Mark at the table, Maureen on the couch (still holding her giant cushion and a matchbox, triumphantly), and Mimi in the kitchen. She had her arms around him.
I should have known.
I tried to put it out of my mind and enjoy the rest of the roll. Joanne and Collins performing what appeared to be a duet—neither one looking very enthusiastic; I assumed a certain drama queen had put them up to it. And a final one of Mark sitting on the couch, with Mimi curled up on his lap, laughing about something.
The front door opened; I quickly slid the pictures back into the envelope and scampered out of his room. He was just coming through the door, camera first, and the rest of him followed—he panned towards my footsteps and brought me into focus.
I chuckled. "Now you look a little more familiar."
"First shot Roger," he announced. "He's home. April 29th, ten p.m., Eastern Standard Time." He paused, lowering the camera. "Where's Mimi?"
A shrug, more nervous than usual—I hadn't had a camera on me in six months. "Still at work, I guess."
Mark switched the camera off, shifting his attention entirely, and shook his head. "She's always home by ten."
As one who hadn't been informed of or accustomed to any of their recent schedules, I just shrugged again, helpless. Clutching his camera protectively, he crossed the room to the kitchen counter and reached for the phone, punching a single button. I never knew we had speed dial.
"Kate, it's Mark. Is Mimi there?" Silence. "Well, when did she leave?" A far more deafening silence, which seemed to squelch his voice almost entirely. "Thanks."
The receiver dropped to its hook listlessly.
"What?" I asked. "What's going on?"
His face, naturally fair-toned, had whitened completely. "She's not there. She hasn't been there all day."
I wasn't sure why that sick feeling in my stomach crept up on me like it did; after all, this was Mimi—no matter what Mark said, I never knew her to be home by ten. Hell, usually she was *still* home at ten. Her fun started at midnight.
Then again, she'd lied to me. That could not be good. Oh, very sharp observation, Roger.
Mark turned back to the phone as though it were the enemy. "I... I'm calling..." He never finished, but punched another button. "Maureen. Is Mimi there? ...No reason." Brief silence. "Well if she were *here*, then I wouldn't be asking if she were *there*, now would I?! God, Maureen. Just tell me if you hear from her."
He tried to hang up, but from the tone of his voice and his rising irritation, she was insisting on asking more stupid questions. I toned them out after awhile, lost in my own newfound worries. All I remember was Mark telling her to stop crying, everything was fine... and then hanging up.
The phone no longer seemed to be an enemy, but rather a savior. Anything, after all, would be better than the silence that was choking us now.
"She's always back by ten," Mark repeated, almost to himself. "You—you don't—you haven't—things are different, Roge."
"Mark, what's going on?"
I was relieved that this at least forced him to look at me, but only more agitated when he shook his head absentmindedly. "Nothing."
"I'm going to look for her."
Although I hadn't even taken one step, Mark ran to my side and put his hand on my arm, as though I were halfway to the door. "No. I'll go."
I moved away and grabbed my jacket. "No. She's my girlfriend. *I'll* go."
He seemed not content with this, but somehow defeated. My reason seemed legitimate enough for him, at any rate, and he stood motionless in the middle of the room. I muttered a quick farewell of "We'll be back," and vanished.
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