All the love I've made
I have no regrets
If at all it's now I'm sad.
Will we make a mark this time?
Will we always say we tried
Standing on the rooftops,
Everybody scream your heart out
Lost Prophets, "Rooftops"

Roger awoke in a cold sweat, his heart pounding against his chest. This always happened when he dreamed about Mimi. He covered his face with his hands, trying to regulate his breathing, to slow down his heart rate. His long hair, in its low ponytail, hung heavy against his neck. He glanced at the digital clock on the desk: almost four in the morning. Gasping for air, Roger threw the covers off his legs and jammed his bare feet into his boots and carefully slipped out of the apartment, bare-chested, heading up towards the roof.

In the production room, Mark was wide awake and heard Roger leave. He wondered for a few moments if he should follow him. He didn't want to be alone, but maybe Roger did. He risked it, and, slipping on his Converse sneakers, went to the roof as well.

Roger was overlooking the New York City skyline, smoking a cigarette. His arms were drawn in tight, like he was cold, but the October air was unseasonably warm. It still felt like summer, though they were way into fall. It was almost Halloween.

Mark's sneakers crunched on the gravel of the roof, giving away his position. Roger turned and spotted him.

"Sorry," Mark murmured. Roger looked so intimidating standing like that, arms crossed over his bare chest, his ponytail over his shoulder, wearing nothing but plaid lounge pants and hiking boots. The cigarette dangled from his mouth like a gunslinger in an old Western. A silver chain around his neck glinted in the moonlight. "I'm sorry; I didn't mean to bother you. I just…I wanted to make sure you were okay."

"I'm okay," Roger replied hoarsely. "Are you?"

"I'm okay," Mark echoed. They were silent for a few moments before Mark shrugged and said, "I'll just…I'll go back to my computers."

"No, no, Mark. Wait," Roger said. "Come on. I've been alone long enough. You can join me if you want."

Mark gave a small smile. "Thank you." He approached Roger and leaned forward over the edge of the rooftop, overlooking the cityscape. "So, couldn't sleep?"

"No," was Roger's simple reply. "I just need to clear my head. You want a smoke?"

Mark raised an eyebrow. "Are you kidding?"

Roger shrugged. "Never too late to start."

"Never too late to quit," Mark scolded.

Roger chuckled, which was punctuated with a cough. He sighed and took a drag of his cigarette. "I had a nightmare, Mark."

"You want to talk about it?"

He sighed again, shrugging. "I don't really remember. I kept seeing Mimi's face, over and over again. I've had it before. I always wake up the same way—like I was falling and I open my eyes as soon as I was supposed to hit the ground. "

Mark nodded slowly. His eyes went to the chain around Roger's neck. "Are those your rings?"

Roger glanced down. "Yeah, mine and Mimi's."

"I didn't know you had Mimi's wedding ring." He recalled Roger and Mimi's wedding: a short, simple ceremony on Valentine's Day, in the same church where Angel's funeral had been held. The bride wore a white vintage dress that Maureen had found at the Salvation Army, and carried a bouquet of red roses. Mimi couldn't find a pair of shoes that would go with her dress and wore a pair of dingy white flip-flops instead, even though the temperature dropped to thirty.

"Yeah. I've always had it." He exhaled deeply before taking another drag on his cigarette. "This heat. It's driving people nuts, isn't it?"

"How do you figure?"

"The heat always makes people do crazy shit. Ever hear of David Berkowitz?"

"Of course: Son of Sam."

"All of his murders occurred in the summer of 1977, one of the hottest summer on record in New York City."

"I remember. I was nine."

"I was eleven. I was living with my mom and Cal in Brooklyn, and whatever man my mom was currently dating at the time. It was nuts. Mom wouldn't let us out after dark. As soon as the streetlights came on, we had to come inside. She bought curtains that were so thick that the sunshine wouldn't come through them and she dyed her hair blonde."

"Why?"

"David Berkowitz targeted brunettes. I liked it when she was blonde. She looked more like me."

Mark, who had never met Roger's mother, asked, "You didn't look like her?"

Roger glanced sideways at Mark. "She'd always tell me that I look like my father; and that she hated my father."

Ouch. Mark didn't know how to respond to this, so he just stayed silent. The faint noise of cars making their way through city traffic and pedestrians spilling out of bars could be overheard. Out of the corner of his eye, Mark noticed that on Roger's chest, over his heart, Mimi's name was tattooed in an ornate script.

"How come you don't want kids, Mark?" Roger blurted suddenly.

Mark crinkled his brow. "What? Who told you—?"

"No one had to tell me. I've known you for too damn long," Roger said around a yawn. "Why get married if you're not going to pass your genes onto the next generation?"

"You've been talking to Joanne, haven't you?"

"No. I was just curious. You know, I never really wanted kids—"

"There's a shocker."

"Shut up. But I never realized how badly I wanted them until I realized I couldn't have them." Mark chewed on the inside of his cheek as Roger spoke. "It's like that old song, that Joni Mitchell song: 'don't it always seem to go, that you don't know what you got 'til it's gone'?"

"'Big Yellow Taxi.'"

"Yeah, that one. I kind of hate that song. But that doesn't mean it doesn't have a god point. I didn't know what I had until it was gone. Not like Mimi would ever let herself get pregnant anyway. She knew the risk as well as I did." Roger took a long, slow drag on his cigarette. "She was pregnant once, though."

Mark's eyes widened. This was news to him. "What?"

"She had an abortion. She was pregnant and she had an abortion, didn't even tell me. Didn't tell me for years. She kept it a secret almost until the day she died. She told me if I knew, it would only hurt more. I told her she hurt me by not telling me." Roger paused. "We argued. We argued and she died a week later. She just…never woke up."

"Oh, Roger…" Mark said sympathetically.

"I've gotten over it though. The abortion thing. It was for the best, you know."

"Yeah, I guess."

"I mean, say she had it. Then she died anyway. I'd be stuck raising a kid, who would most likely be sick. It would be a disaster situation."

Mark nodded. "I suppose you're right."

"I am right. You don't know how lucky you are, Mark. Right from the beginning. You had two folks, grew up with money, went to private school, prep school. College."

"I dropped out of Brown."

"You still got to go. Now you're married to a beautiful woman—"

"She walked out."

"You're still married, you schmuck. Can't you see how devoted she is to you? God, I don't think I've ever seen a wife like Steph: hanging onto your every word, wanting to be with you constantly. And you let her go."

"She wanted to go. I don't think she was all that happy with our marriage. She wanted more and I couldn't give it to her."

"She wants kids. I can tell. The miscarriage must have been rough, huh?"

"It was," Mark confirmed after a pause. He sighed and stood beside Roger, crossing his arms over his chest. "She…started hemorrhaging in the middle of the night. She started screaming, and I called an ambulance. They took her to St. Vincent's. The doctors couldn't save the baby. Stephanie had a bit of a breakdown when they told her. She started yelling at me, saying it was my fault. She didn't want to stay in the hospital. She wanted to go home, but the doctor kept her overnight for an observation. She cried the entire night. She was never really the same after that."

"Did you ever…try again? To have kids?"

"Oh, sure, we did. But it just never happened."

Roger wasn't sure if he believed Mark, but he let the situation rest. "How much longer do you think Collins is going to hold out for?"

"I don't know," Mark admitted. "His doctor said as long as two years." He looked sharply at Roger. "Are you thinking of leaving?"

"I can't stay here for two years. I just can't. I'm not going to. I'll wait until after Christmas, but after that, it's anyone's guess."

Mark sighed. "Roger…"

"I don't want to talk about it," Roger snapped. "I just want to enjoy the silence."

And that's what they did.