A/N: Comic illustration of the metaphor used in this fic can be found at h t t p : // geocities.com / sunnymonster66 / Drawings / rent-peanutbutter1.jpg (you will need to remove the spaces) .  If, for some reason, you couldn't tell, this is in Mark's viewpoint. Enjoy.


You know how sometimes you just want a peanut butter sandwich, but when you try to get the peanut butter out you can't for the life of you get the lid to budge? So you give up and settle for a bowl of Cap'n Crunch instead, leaving the jar of peanut butter on the counter, when someone walks up, removes the lid with no trouble, sticks their finger in just for a taste, and then puts the peanut butter back on the shelf. And after you leave the "How the hell did they do that?" phase, all you can think is, "I know I loosened that up for them."

Sometimes I think that's the story of my life.

But then I remember that's not true, because for it to be the story of my life, it would have to go like this:

You know how sometimes you just want a peanut butter sandwich, but when you try to get the peanut butter out you can't for the life of you get the lid to budge? So you take a break to eat a bowl of Cap'n Crunch, in an attempt to gain the strength required to open the jar, which you have left on the counter, when some hot chick sashays up to the jar which, in awe of the woman's sexiness, immediately pops its lid off and eagerly sends its contents on a one-way flight into her mouth, framed by full red lips which she licks sensually as she closes her eyes. And after you leave the "How the hell did she do that?" phase, all you can think is, "I know I loosened that up for her." At least, you know you tried.

Now that is the story of my life.

I don't hate Mimi. I don't really have any reason to. In fact, I should be grateful to her. It was Mimi who opened Roger up and got him out of his depression and out of the house.

It was Mimi who provided the inspiration for Roger's one great song.

It was Mimi who made him want to live.

But it was me who made sure he could live.

I was the one who threw out all the needles, who let him take out the physical and emotional pain of withdrawal on me, hiding bruises with sweaters in August and hoping it was at least making things easier for him. And it was me who took him to the clinic, made appointments with doctors, picked up his meds and made sure he took them.

I was the one who guarded his guitar for months so that he couldn't pawn it for drugs and leave his song behind.

And I was the desperate friend who offered him movie tickets, free lunch, free beer, or just a walk in the park– anything to lure Roger out into the world of the living– when all it took for Mimi was a pair of tight pants. Granted, the tight pants approach wouldn't have worked for me anyways, and I'm not even jealous of Mimi on a romantic level, but it just seems ironic that someone would follow a potential one-night-stand more readily than their long-time best friend.

It's not that I don't like Mimi. I do. She's witty, caring, and gorgeous. And I like Mimi and Roger. They could be good for each other. And, I mean, even if I'm not the one to have made Roger want to live, at least some one has. At least he wants to live. At least he's opened up at all.

But I'm worried. I know Mimi's cheating on Roger, no matter how much she loves him. And it's not Benny. Mimi's affair is with heroin. I know; I've seen her with her dealer. Roger's blind. I would tell him, but what good would it do? He'd just be angry: first at me, and then at her. He'd close himself off again.

And who would be left to open him up?