I'm just another heart in need of rescue
Waiting on love's sweet charity
Whitesnake, "Here I Go Again"

Nearly every night since the first time he'd been there with Mark upon his return into the city, Roger found himself at the Life Café. He didn't necessarily go to eat, or to get drunk, like he had done in the past. He went to see Lucien.

The young blonde bartender had captured his attention from day one, and he, for some reason, couldn't keep himself from thinking about her. He pursued her. He gained her friendship. Occasionally, he would arrive as her shift was ending and they would go out to eat.

They talked a lot. The Life Café was far from its heyday, though it still did decent business, but whenever Lucien had some downtime, she and Roger were talking.

Roger loved to hear Lucien talk. He loved hearing about her every aspect. He listened hungrily, soaking up her every word like tomato sauce with a slice of bread. He listened to her talk about music, about her mom, about her son. She talked about celebrities she'd encountered at the Life. She idolized Debbie Harry and Courtney Love. She liked her BLT's with mustard, not mayo.

He offered very little information about himself. He didn't like to talk about himself. He preferred not to. Lucien would ask him questions, which he answered vaguely. Whenever she probed him for more, he would not yield. He wanted to tell her more, but he was afraid.

He didn't want Lucien falling in love with him. There was a definite attraction between them, albeit an unspoken one. He was already falling for her, but he could live with the pain of separation. He wasn't sure if she could. He kept his guard up. It killed him to act so distant and cold.

The first week of September, Roger was sitting at the bar, smoking a cigarette which he would occasionally rest in a plastic ashtray shaped like a heart. Lucien sauntered over after serving a customer at the far end of the bar. She was wearing a faded white tee printed with a pattern of cherries.

"Hey, Roger," she greeted with a smile. "What'll it be? Jack and Coke?"

"You know me too well," he replied.

"Coming right up."

"How's your day been?"

"Long and uneventful, the way I like it—at least I get off in an hour," she grinned as she looked underneath the bar for the Jack Daniels. "I took Caleb to the park for a few hours today. He fell off the monkey bars and skinned his knee and he wasn't a happy camper after that, so I had to take him home." She turned and reached up for a new bottle of Jack Daniels, making her shirt ride up just a bit, revealing her lower-back tattoo.

Roger smiled slightly. Hearing Lucien talk about Caleb made him think of Will, which in turn made him wonder how big baby Sarah had grown, which in turn lead to the consideration of Roger actually picking up the phone and giving Calvin a call. "He must hate it when you leave for work."

"Oh, he forgets all about me once my kid sister pops in a video and gives him a cookie."

"Your sister, huh? Not your husband or boyfriend?"

"You're slick. No, not my husband or boyfriend. Neither one of them exist."

"Raising your son alone?"

"For the time being."

"There's nothing wrong with it," Roger replied. "My mom was a single parent for the majority of her life. My dad walked out before I was a year old and her second husband died when I was about nine. She was a waitress: worked herself to the bone for my brother and me." Roger bit the inside of his cheek. That was quite possibly the most information he'd ever given her.

Lucien slid Roger's drink to him on a coaster. "What about you? No wife or girlfriend?"

Roger took a long sip of his drink before answering, "I'm a widower, actually."

"Oh. I'm sorry." She leaned over the bar, her elbows resting on the top.

"She's been gone for a long time. Seven years."

"How long were you married?"

"Two years. We got married on Valentine's Day."

"Can I ask how she…?"

Another pause. Roger took a hit on his cigarette and a long pull of his drink. "She had AIDS."

Lucien's face softened. "I'm sorry," she repeated. She paused and then parted her lips to say something. Roger could tell by the look on her face that she was searching for the right words, the right questions. He knew what she wanted to ask. Roger leaned in as well and put a hand on hers. "Lucien," he whispered, "its okay. You can ask me."

"A-are you…do you have…I mean, do you…" she cleared her throat.

"Yes," he said simply.

She averted her gaze.

"Don't be sorry," he said to her. "I'm not." He paused. "Are you alright?"

Lucien glanced at him then locked her eyes with his. She bit her lower lip, leaned in and planted a small, lovely kiss on his lips.

In the dim bedroom, the late afternoon sun peeking through the curtains, Lucien ran her hand over the tattoo on Roger's chest, Mimi's name right over his heart. "Who's Mimi? Your wife?"

"Mm-hmm," Roger said, one hand behind his head as he leaned back against the pillows.

"Do you miss her?" Lucien rolled over onto her stomach, her arms folded. She rested her head on them, facing him, her blue eyes bright and ringed with smeared eyeliner.

"Every day," he replied. He reached out and stroked Lucien's hair, the pink-streaked-bleach-blonde. On anyone else, it would look like a mess, but on her, it was sexy and wild. "You're so beautiful, you know that?"

"Stop," Lucien blushed, burying her face in the bed sheets. "So are you."

"I'm ugly on the inside."

"Roger," Lucien propped herself up on one elbow. "Why do you have to put yourself down?"

"Do I do it that often?"

"I think you have a beautiful soul," she left a trail of kisses down his naked chest.

"I think I should go." Roger sat up and reached for his jeans.

"What? Why?" she grabbed his elbow.

He yanked his arm away. "I'm not here to stay, Lucien. And I'm not looking back when I leave." He slipped out from underneath the covers and pulled his pants back on.

"I—"

"Would you follow me?" his voice had a nasty undertone. "Would you uproot your kid, your life, to follow me around? I'm a drifter, Lucien. I don't have a permanent home. All I have is an old bus, a box of clothes and a guitar."

"Why can't you stay?" she asked softly. "Why can't you stay with me?"

"Why would you want me?" Roger retorted. "You don't know me; you're not in love with me."

"You don't know that." She sat up in bed, the covers wrapped around her naked body.

"Why would you want me?" he repeated. He stood. "Could you hand me my shirt?"

Lucien, trying to hide her tears, reached over to the other side of the bed for Roger's red button-down. Roger peered once more at the lower back tattoo, which he knew now, was a vine of red and purple flowers. She also had a tribal sun between her shoulder blades, and wolf paw prints on her pelvis. She threw him his shirt and it hit him in the face.

"Look, I'm sorry," Roger said, shaking it out and putting it on. "But I don't think we can…be anything."

"Is it because of your wife?" she whispered. "Is it because you still love her?"

"It's because of me," he insisted. "I didn't want this to happen, Lucien. This was a mistake."

She sat up straight, as if a steel rod had been implanted in her spine. "So, I was a mistake?"

"No. You're not the mistake. What happened was a mistake."

"We made love. I don't call that a mistake."

"You don't understand, do you?" He sat on the edge of the bed, his back to her. "I never wanted you to get attached. I didn't think you could handle this."

Lucien scurried out of bed and put on her bikini panties, printed with black-and-white checkers. She stood, topless, in front of him. He moaned inwardly. "I don't understand you. Why are you pushing me away? Maybe you're the one who can't handle it." Roger didn't answer. He just pulled on his shoes. "Get out."

He looked up sharply. "What?"

"You heard me. Get out. Get the fuck out of my apartment." She stomped her foot like a child. "Get out now, or I'm calling the cops."

Roger was stunned. He swallowed hard. "Let me finish getting dressed," he said calmly. "Then I'll leave."

Lucien was stony-faced. She glared at him as Roger quickly finished. He moved passed her to exit the bedroom. He paused for a few seconds, wondering if he should say anything, maybe an apology, but words failed him. He left the apartment.