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It’s late on a Friday night. Mark sits at a corner table, glasses riding up his nose from the way he’s propping himself up with the palm of his hand against his cheek. The sounds of the life cafe permeate the backdrop to his tired, spaced-out train of thought, but he doesn’t pay it much mind. Usually, he enjoys the atmosphere, the life, the sheer power in so many bodies moving around to the sound of whoever they’ve got playing on the open mic. Not tonight.
Sometimes he wishes he wasn’t such a fly in the wall. Or at least that someone would bother to come over and swat him. Or, no, not swat him, just pay him some attention - maybe the metaphor’s getting away from him. He rubs his eyes.
“Mark?” A chair scrapes the wood beside him. It’s Joanne, somehow having escaped his notice on the way over. Mark’s eyes don’t leave the figure he’s been tracking through the crowd, but he angles his body towards her to invite conversation.
“Are you okay?”
Fine. Maybe he’s looking for attention from one person in particular.
“Yeah. Just taking it in.”
“The life?” Her scepticism is audible enough to conjure the image of a raised eyebrow. He pulls his eyes off of the crowd to see it for himself, shrugging.
“Yeah. I could get this sort of thing on film.”
“What kind of film?”
“Arthouse, maybe. Something a little messier than usual,” the response is half-hearted. Truth is, every idea he’s had recently has been vaguer than he’d like. Allowing his mind to wander for even a moment always leads back to-
“Mark?” Joanne sounds annoyed.
“Hm?” He swallows, catching himself. He’d turned away again, mesmerised by the crowd.
“Not you, too,” she frowns.
“Sorry, I’ve been…” he trails off, waving a hand around to try and illustrate a point that never comes to him.
“I wish she wouldn’t,” Joanne shakes her head.
“What?” Mark backpedals to try and remember if she’d said anything else.
“It’s alright, I don’t blame you,” she glares out into the throng of people, (another excuse for him to do the same). “It’s her.”
Mark tries to follow her eyeline, which is when he finally sees her. Maureen Johnson, dancing up against one of the partygoers. He feels a stab of regret but doesn’t have it in himself to feel any envy. For a long time after she’d ended things he’d been jealous of whoever he saw her with - to be honest, he felt much the same way while they were still seeing each other, but he hadn’t in a while now. Incredible as she is, he doesn’t have the willpower to meet her where she’s at. Besides, there’s a certain uncomfortable pleasure in seeing Joanne get the upper hand over her, even if that means accepting he’d never have a shot with her again.
“I’m not, I mean, she’s brilliant, but I’m not staring.” He immediately regrets his phrasing. “I mean, it’s not brilliant that she's doing that. I hadn’t even noticed she was.”
“Mark, don’t bullshit me.”
“I’m not!” He sputters. “If I wanted another shot I wouldn’t be sitting here talking to you. I’d be over there doing…” he trails off, gesturing to the stranger still dancing with Maureen. “That.”
“Thanks, Mark.”
“Sorry.”
Joanne sighs, arranging her coat around her on the seat and motioning for the long-suffering waiter with one arm.
“Okay, I’ll bite. Why are you over here looking like a lost dog?”
“Would you take a really vague answer that doesn’t mean I have to tell you anything?”
“Not if you want me to believe you.”
“Do I want you to believe me?”
“Stop being difficult.” She pauses to speak to the waiter, ordering two large orders of fries and a large pot of tea.
“I don’t have any cash,” Mark says quickly.
“Mark. I’m a lawyer.” She raises her eyebrows at him again. “It’s fine.”
“Oh. Thanks.” He shifts in his seat, unsure whether to feel grateful or embarrassed. As if reading his mind, she follows it up with,
“And if you’re about to feel indignant that a woman is paying for your meal, forget it.”
“Believe me, that was… nowhere near where I was at. But thanks.”
The waiter bustles away.
“So, tell me.”
Mark considers it but shakes his head.
“Come on. You already know what I’m doing over here.”
“Actually, I don’t,” he squints at her. “You’re not the kind of person who sits on the sidelines. Just go drag her away, it wouldn’t be the first time, right?”
“No… but we’re okay. It’s fine. I expect this kind of thing now and again.” Joanne scowls momentarily but shrugs it off. Mark finds himself searching the crowd again. He doesn’t see who he’s looking for.
“Alright. If you’re not going to tell me anything then I’m going to start guessing. So. Is it Mimi?”
“Huh?” He turns bright red. Did Joanne seriously think he was trying to ogle his best friend’s… whatever they are at the moment? The idea seems almost laughable.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
“What? What, no!”
“Thou does protest-”
“I mean, uh, maybe? Not like that, I mean.” He massages the bridge of his nose. “It’s not not Mimi.”
“So what, it’s just anyone. Any woman? You’re just after someone?”
“No! For fuck’s sake.” He cradles his head against his elbows. Joanne raises her hands in mock innocence.
“Well I’m sorry, but you’re not really giving me much to go off of here.”
Mark tilts his head so that his glasses fall back on his eyes and he can look up at her. “You know, I didn’t think you’d be the type to just assume it was a girl.”
“Are you not the ‘straight man’ of the group, so to speak?” Joanne receives a mismatched teapot and cups, pouring herself one.
“I mean, yeah.” Mark admits tiredly. “Still though. It’s the principle, isn’t it?”
“All your principles have gotten you is starving in a stolen loft apartment while you wait for what, some film you’re never going to finish to make it big?”
“Ouch?”
Joanne shakes her head. “It’s not your place to lecture me about that kind of thing Mark. You don’t know half the shit I get for it.”
“Sorry.”
“Yeah.”
Mark waits to speak again. “I have had jobs before.”
“I didn’t say being principled is a bad thing. It’s just not getting you anywhere.”
“Mm.” Mark’s attention is momentarily taken by two figures slipping out of the cafe’s front door. He feels like a weight had been taken off of his shoulders but dunked straight into his chest.
“-sorry but sometimes you just need to try,” Joanne finishes her sentence when she realises he’s once again ignored her. “This is starting to be less endearing than annoying.”
“Shit, sorry,” he sighs. “It’s… well.” He nods towards the door. “You get it.”
“Roger?” Joanne looks only mildly surprised. “He’s the one you’re pining after?”
“Again, not like that,” Mark assures her. “Well, it’s difficult. It’s not like I’m in love with the guy but I do love him. Ever since April died and he moved in with me it’s been the two of us against the world. I wanted him to feel better and to get out of the house but… And, I mean, I’m glad he’s getting out again, I am. And I’m glad he has Mimi now. I just-” he frowns, unable to phrase what he’s thinking.
“You’re lonely?” Joanne takes a long sip of tea. “You want him to yourself again?”
“Yes? Maybe? I don’t want him to get hurt.” He watches the door as if somehow that’s going to let him see through it into the snowy street. “I don’t want to be alone.”
“Mark,” Joanne nudges his arm so he turns back to look at her. “You’re not alone. Even if you’re not the main person in your moping roommate’s life anymore.”
“Sure.”
“I’m serious. Maybe you should come to my apartment sometime. I’ve already helped break into yours but I’ll forgive you if you just ring the buzzer.”
“Huh? No, I’m not saying this for pity,” he feels immediately embarrassed.
“I’m not your friend out of pity.”
Mark doesn’t have a response for her. He takes a handful of fries and starts eating, hoping it gives him the time to formulate a proper response.
“Come on, this is just depressing. Let’s… dance? Is that what you’re supposed to do here?”
Suppressing a laugh, he shakes his head. “Maybe another time. But that does remind me of a dream I had back when we first met.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Remember when we were talking about Maureen and I called it a tango? I had this really elaborate dream where we were actually dancing.”
“That sounds…”
“Horrifying?”
“Depends. Can you dance?”
“No, not at all. Not since I was a kid.” He cringes at the memory. “You?”
“Oh, absolutely,” she nods, straight-faced. He studies her for a moment trying to work out if she’s lying. He can’t decide.
Out of the corner of his eye, he notices someone else watching Joanne. Maureen, a usually commanding presence in any situation seems to look almost longing. Mark feels a pang of jealousy. He can’t remember her ever looking at him like that. Or anyone looking like that for that matter. Unsure if Joanne has realised she’s coming, he’s torn. He’d love to stay and talk to her, longing for some kind of company for the rest of the night, but he knows he should probably leave them. Misery may love company, but he owes it to Joanne not to drag her down too.
“As much as that sounds like a good time, I have an illegal wood-burning stove and a bottle of absolut waiting for me back in the loft.”
“You’re sure?” She seems almost... disappointed.
“I don’t feel like staying out any longer. It’s not about you, I swear,” he assures her. “Thanks for the fries. And the tea. I’ll pay you back.”
Mark slips out of his seat at the table in just enough time to avoid anything more than a brief nod at Maureen in which he tries not to make eye contact. She seems preoccupied.
“Doubtful,” Joanne begins to call after him, but she doesn’t follow it up.
The chilled air of the street outside of the life wakes him up enough to hurry back to the apartment at a jog, knowing full well that he’s in for another night freezing alone in the massive loft. He rubs the back of his neck, now irritably aware of the tension behind his ears and in his neck. He hasn’t heard from Collins in the few days since the visit to the hospital, which is a blessing in a way. No news is good news. Then again, barring Joanne, he hasn’t heard from anyone since the hospital visit. Which pisses him off slightly because, after the amount of time he’s spent trying to comfort everyone else, you’d think someone would bother to check on him. To consider that the whole thing might have taken some kind of toll on him too. He hates admitting it, but he doesn’t even think it has. Every time he tries to conjure up some kind of terror or sadness he just hits a wall. That same glass pane separated him from the world around him. Maybe that’s why no one reached out. He stays so deep in thought that he almost misses his apartment door and has to backtrack a few paces to unlock the door, the early November chill already nipping at his nose and fingertips.