Hold me tight, baby, hold me tight
The view from the roof of the loft has always been beautiful, in that "filth, poverty, sex, drugs, rock and roll" sort of way. But that's not why I'm leaning against the ledge and gazing down the street. I'm hoping, praying, that one of these days I'll see a beat-up old convertible that couldn't have cost more than the price of a used guitar rolling towards me, driven by the person I'm longing to see again. But I don't. Just taxis, a bus, and hundreds of cars I don't recognize.
This is how my days have been spent since Halloween. Eat, sleep, bathe, work on a sleazy show that is an insult to the term 'news', and wait for Roger.
Today is the third of December. Thirty-three days and no phone call. Maybe he's forgotten all about us...me. I guess Santa Fe really is that much better than Alphabet City.
I glance down at the cloth I'm clutching in my hands: Roger's plaid pants. They were his favorite. He might come back, if only for them. I've toyed with the idea of hiding them, so when he does come back he won't be able to find them and thus, logically, he'll have to stay. Somewhere in the span of a month my reasoning has degraded to that of a five-year-old.
Mimi went to rehab last month, courtesy of Benny. She called here a few times, but I haven't heard from her in over a week. Collins is away teaching until Christmas. Maureen and Joanne are too busy 'working things out' to bother with me.
I sigh. "Roger was right; I AM alone. Oh, great. Now I'm talking to myself. That's so pathetic."
"You're not alone." My jaw drops. That voice. The voice which used to steal hearts on and off stage. The voice that used to fill the loft. I'm almost afraid to move, lest I discover I'm imagining it. I slowly turn to my right. He's standing not ten feet away from me. Roger...oh, Roger...
I rush over and pull him into an embrace. He returns it. Marlboros, sweat, and that cheap citrus-y shampoo he loves so much: god, I missed that smell. "I'm NOT alone..."
He pulls away and those emerald spheres meet my teary Bombay Sapphire ones. He smiles softly. "Aww, Marky..."
He notices the pants in my hands. I grin awkwardly and hand them to him. "I, uh, thought you might want these."
He takes them, giving me a sideways glance, then chuckling. "You're weird, Mark."
"Well, eccentricity loves company." We laugh together. Then suddenly he becomes serious.
"I'm sorry. I was an asshole."
"Let's not talk about that now."
"You're right." He mimics my pose, leaning against the ledge and folding his arms.
"Beautiful up here, isn't it?" I comment.
"Yeah."
I look over at him and smile. "Welcome home."