There were no happy endings in New York.
Roger refused to look at Mimi, knowing the sorrowful look on her face would make him crack and beg her forgiveness.
"I gave you chances," he said softly.
"I know!" Mimi was about to cry. He could tell without looking at her. "I know, baby, and I messed up. I'm so sorry…"
Roger forced himself to look into her eyes. "Mimi…"
She dared to take a few steps closer, reaching out to touch his arm. The light caught the spider webs of raised veins scattered over her arm, and he stared at them. Each line pierced his heart like a tiny piece of glass. Mimi saw him looking at her track marks, and tore her arm from his, turning away from him.
"I know I screwed up," she said quietly, her words climbing out from between her clenched teeth. "I'm trying to get better. But you know how hard it is."
"Don't drag me into this!" Roger exploded. "This is your problem, Mimi! I'm not the one who swears blind she's quit only to shoot up the next day! This is all to do with you, and I'm not sure how much more I can take."
Mimi let out a choked sob. "I know it's me! But you've done this before, Roger, you should know how hard I'm trying!"
"I did this with April!" Roger hated bringing the spectre of April into Mimi's life. Even saying her name felt foreign. But Mimi had never understood the difference between herself and Roger's other girlfriend.
"And she gave up," Roger continued, crossing the room to touch Mimi's arm. She turned to look up at him, her eyes huge and dark with sadness. "She… she died. And I can't lose you like that."
"You won't," she promised, and leaned in to kiss him, thinking the argument over.
Roger stepped back, pulling away from Mimi's embrace. "But I can't watch you destroy yourself, either."
"I won't!" Mimi was eager now, desperate to salvage the momentary peace of seconds ago. "I swear, I'm giving up for good, Roger, and-"
Roger's words cut through hers, cold and harsh, almost before he'd formulated the thought of saying them. "It's me or the smack, Mimi. I'm not making the same mistakes I made before."
There were no happy endings this time. Sure, they could pretend, but Roger knew better than anyone that sooner or later reality would overcome delusion. He and Mimi were over for good this time, he decided, despite his urge to run out the door after her. His last words still rang in his ears.
She'd looked at him like she didn't know who he was, and stormed out, taking all of Roger's hopes of happiness with her. He needed her more than he'd ever needed anything that didn't come out of a needle, and he loved her with all his heart, but he couldn't handle her addiction. He'd trod this ground before, and so had she. This fight was old, and it was predictable, but it hurt every time.
But it didn't matter anymore, because he and Mimi were over. He'd made a decision, and there was no turning back now. Roger flopped onto the couch, unconsciously tangling his legs so that if Mimi returned she could curl comfortably into them. His mind wandered back to the night she'd burst into his existence, bringing life and excitement… and drugs. Funny how all his best memories of Mimi were undermined by his hatred of the little plastic packet.
And she'd sweetly spouted philosophy and pleaded with him to be reasonable. He smiled softly as he recalled her face and her pleading eyes… her eyes. They had gotten him through Angel's death, and their memory had comforted him when he'd thought he had lost her forever. They were beautiful. He hadn't been lying that Christmas Eve. He'd always had a secret suspicion that the only reason his song had brought Mimi back was because it was the only true thing he'd ever sung.
But their problems hadn't miraculously disappeared with Mimi's coma. She'd woken up on Christmas morning jonesing, and he'd had to physically restrain her from leaving the loft. That was when he knew it wouldn't end well. He'd subconsciously given up on her, as selfish as that sounded. He knew that it would take a fucking miracle for her to get clean, and he wasn't sure he was that miracle.
Every time they'd fought since Christmas, Roger has been ready to end things. Sometimes he'd even deliberately escalated the argument beyond regular parameters just to see if she'd leave. It was completely out of line, and he knew that, but somehow he felt that breaking up with Mimi now would be easier than watching her die. He'd never been good at losing things.
Mimi had been so sure they could make it work. She'd always come back.
The memory of her standing in his bedroom doorway after they'd fought, patiently waiting for him to notice her, caused involuntary tears to spring to Roger's eyes. He reminded his less romantic side that every minute he spent resenting her and every minute she wasn't within his reach was one minute he'd never spend with her again, one less minute she (and he) had left to live. She'd been adamant about that. She always rushed the making up part, so they could have more time together.
Mimi had made so many sacrifices for him, but the one sacrifice he required of her she hadn't been able to give. Roger was furious at her for that, yet at the same time he understood the pain of trying to quit. But there was always a tiny part of him that demanded it of Mimi, a tiny part that decided, if she loved me, she'd do it.
"But she does love me," Roger said, unaware that he had spoken out loud. His words hung in the dry air of the loft, too quiet to echo. Mimi loved him, and he knew, with every fibre of his being, that he loved her. And she was slipping away from him, minute by agonising minute.
Did the smack really matter?
Roger ran to the window, hauled it open and (less than gracefully) climbed onto the fire escape. He saw Mimi on the corner of Avenue B, a tiny huddled figure of pure misery. He leaned on the railing and yelled, "Mimi!"
She turned and looked up at him. He couldn't tell what she was thinking, but he was beyond caring. He held out his arms, his face arranged into a sheepish smile, then let them drop by his sides. "Are you still mad?"