Disclaimer: RENT belongs to Jonathan Larson. I am just playing with his characters, all respect meant.
To be fair, there is one thing I loved about the Midwest: I loved the twisters. As a child I loved to hold out my arms and spin and spin and spin, kicking up clouds of dust that settled in my hair and my shoes and the folds of my clothes. I loved how, if I risked it, I could see the land with no one around, I could see the lightning and I could feel the calm. And it's dead calm. There's no one around for miles and miles and the wind picks up…
I knew it, even when I was ten years old. I felt the weather inside me and I could not draw breath. I felt my pulse deep down in my secret place. I felt it spill out and smear onto my panties, the first time I wet myself. I was nothing and everything and my head burned to implode and I was so beautiful.
---
I heard the same quiet in the loft last night. Roger was sleeping. He cries in his sleep sometimes. We let him.
Mark and I were asleep, too, but the quiet woke me. I left the bed. Wasn't tired any longer. I came out here and I sat, waiting, because I knew the storm was coming.
---
"Hey." There was a warm hand on my shoulder and a face near mine. "Hey. You're Maureen, right?"
I had no idea who this pixie is, but I liked the way she pronounced my name. "Mar'een." I nodded. "Yeah. How do you…?"
She laughed, her body swayed slightly. She wore a long coat held tight around her body. "You guys aren't exactly quiet. Mind if I sit?"
"No."
I made room for her. She pulled out a pack of cigarettes. I'm not a smoker, but when she offered I accepted. "So what do you do?" she asked. I told her about my protests. She just kept asking and asking, and she was interested, too, I mean she listened to every word and when I was done she said, "Well that sounds fun." I thought she was being nice until she added, "You should come down to my place some time if you need anything. I'd love to help out."
"Are you serious?"
"Yeah," she said, like it was obvious.
Roger woke up first. He came out rubbing his eyes. "Mm," my companion said. "Is he your boyfriend?"
I laughed. "Hardly. He's more like my best friend." I won't pretend I never fantasized about Roger. I did, at first. Five people, one bathroom, so I had seen him naked, and uh… well, G-d may have made Roger's head a little broken, but He certainly compensated.
Already I saw her eyes calculating, but Mark came out then. We briefly discussed him: yes, I'm with him. Um, not great, actually, but he's really sweet.
"You sure about that?" she asked, looking in through the window.
Mark and Roger were "having words". I couldn't hear them, didn't need to. Where is she?
I dunno.
What do you mean, you don't know?
I mean I don't know.
I knew the storm was coming. That day was the first time I saw the fight, though. Before I had only seen the bruises.
Mark swung at Roger, but Roger caught his wrist and told him to stop. Roger was trembling at the effort. He was weak after withdrawal. Mark wrenched his hand free and smacked Roger across the face. He shouted so loudly, I heard every word: "This is your fault, Roger! You started this!" Then he grabbed his coat and stormed out.
"Ouch."
I wiped a tear off my cheek. "Yeah." Some friend I was. Some friend, because I let Mark smack Roger and it was my fault that he did.
"You want to come down to my place? Warm up… calm down…" She offered a hand and pulled me up. Things were so horrible upstairs, I would have gone anywhere. I had gone just about everywhere. I had gone into the beds of strangers to feel a little love and safety.
And yeah, okay, so there was a thrill when I had to climb down their fire escapes to avoid wives and girlfriends.
That day, after I left her apartment I went to the clinic to pick up my test results. HIV antibodies. The print is not friendly. It spares no amount of pain, offers no comfort. It offered me a cold, hard fact I already knew. It offered me a negative result to show Mark, to show him that I never fooled around with Roger. I used it to break up with him that day.
I resolved to do it on the bus, riding back, but what sealed my resolve was the faint bruise on Roger's face and the heavier bruise in a perfect circle on the back of his hand.
To be continued.
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