Chapter Ten

Joanne awoke the next morning for work to find Roger sitting on the couch softly strumming his Fender. He was scrawling something on one of her old legal pads, probably a song.

"Good morning," she greeted, heading over to the coffee maker. "Can I get you a cup?"

Roger mumbled a yes and kept playing.

Realizing she had about a half hour before she needed to catch the train downtown, she decided to take her coffee on the couch with Roger. Placing a mug of black coffee on the table, she sat down and raised her own mug to her lips. She took a sip and said, "You miss him, don't you?"

Roger nodded and stopped playing to look up at her. She could see that his matted dirty blonde hair had lost its curl from tossing and turning. His emerald eyes had faded a little. "I do," he said at last. "I miss him a lot."

"Then why don't you go home?" she suggested with a smile.

"No, I still need time to be mad at him."

"Roger, that's not going to get you nowhere," she replied with wisdom. "Leaving doesn't work; trust me, I've been there too many times with Maureen. Go home, apologize, and he will too. You'll look back on this stupid fight in a little while and laugh at yourselves. Maureen and I do it all the time."

Roger paused to think about what Joanne had said. He noticed that she said "a little while" as opposed to "a few years". Normally, Roger would be a stubborn bastard, but her words sparked something in his brain. A little while. He didn't know if he – or Mark – had a little while left. "Thanks," he said at last.


Joanne gave him a smile and a nod as she watched him gather his things and leave without another word.

With his guitar slung over his shoulder, Roger slowly took the short walk back to the loft. He wasn't sure what he was going to say besides sorry. He stopped outside the door to the loft, imagining the events of the next few minutes.

Roger would enter the loft and find Mark asleep on the couch maybe clutching to one of Roger's old shirts or his pillow. He would sit on the edge and run his fingers through Mark's short blond hair. Mark would wake up and smile a little at Roger's return. He'd sit up and they'd both apologizing: Mark for his secrets and Roger for leaving. They'd kiss a little and cuddle on the couch. Roger would sing him part of the song he was writing and Mark would cling tight to his chest when it was over and smile. In a few hours when Mark reminded Roger to take his AZT (because he would forget), they would take it together. They would go to bed together and Mark would rest his head on Roger's chest. Roger would softly whisper 'I love you' into Mark's ear and he'd return it. They'd both mean it too. Their hands would intertwine as they drifted off to sleep in each other's arms. Tomorrow, they wouldn't remember the fight, just like Joanne had said.

Roger smiled as the scene danced perfectly through his mind. He slowly opened the door and stepped inside. Setting his guitar down, he looked over at the couch. No Mark. Frowning, he stuck his head in their bedroom. Their bed was unmade and Mark's clothes from the previous day lay forgotten on the floor, but no Mark.

"Mark?" he called. "Mark, where are you?"

No answer. Roger paced the living room, pondering the filmmaker's whereabouts. The perfect scene he had envisioned upon entering the loft evaded his mind as he searched for his lover. His eyes caught sight of the one room he hadn't yet explored – the bathroom. In tentative steps, he padded across the loft towards the slightly ajar door. Pushing it open further, he prayed for the best and expected the worst.

"Oh, god no…" his eyes widened at the sight. He stepped backwards and leaned against the wall for support as his legs gave way beneath him. He slid to the floor trying to catch his breath and hold back his tears. "Oh Mark…"