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“Tsk, I gotta go,” Mimi said, checking her watch.
“Oh? Where?” Roger was sitting on the table, as he usually was.
“Maureen calls, said I had to ‘fix the choreography for the last scene.’ She’s got new lighting that ‘doesn't quite go with the old routine.’ Her words, not mine.”
Roger scoffed, bemused at his roommate’s ability to succumb to her former lover’s antics. “You’re such a sucker.”
“Mm. I don’t suppose you’d like to see her show in the lot tonight?” Mimi had a desperate plea to get Roger out. It wasn’t healthy for boys to sit and dwell inside all day. Roger shrugged, Mimi sighed. “Or come to dinner?”
“Grand jeté into a comically oversized empty wallet,” Roger said, using a vaguely European accent and posing his arms.
Mimi chuckled, “sure. Take your AZT.” As she said this, Mimi took her own pills with a cup of water that had been left out. “I’ll check up on you later. Change your mind. You have to get out of the house.” Mimi gently kissed him on the cheek, gathered her dancing equipment, and left. The wind of a cold winter’s day caused the door to slam shut, startling Roger.
Roger waited about a minute to make sure that Mimi was definitely gone. He picked up the guitar that was resting next to him on the table to work on his One Great Song. He began mindlessly noodling. Mindless noodling shifted into that same riff he had stuck in his head.
There was a knock at the door.
Roger gently placed his guitar back on the table. Mimi was probably back to pick up something she left. Which was fine. She would be interrupting his magnum opus, but that could supposedly wait for a lovesick girl who was still under the thumb of her ex.
“What’d you forget?” Roger said as he opened the door. He was expecting to see Mimi, because she lived there. He was not expecting to see an awkward looking guy with a camera around his neck and a candle in his hand.
“Hi, sorry, but do you have a light?” the man gestured to his candle.
Pointing his finger at nothing in particular, Roger tilted his head and squinted, “I know you; you’re shivering.”
“Yeah, they turned off my heat. Hence the candle.”
There was something rather ethereal about the man that caused Roger to stare. Perhaps it was the moon backlighting him, giving him a soft glow. The stranger pushed his thin, wiry glasses back on his face, as they had started to fall off.
“What are you staring at?” The man turned his head to see if there was some sort of spectacle outside behind him. There wasn’t.
Roger shook himself from his daze and struck a match for the stranger’s candle. “Oh, nothing.” The man politely smiled and started to leave. As he did, he tripped and fell. “Can you make it?”
The man nodded, rubbing his eyes. “I just haven’t eaten enough, at least the room isn’t spinning anymore– what?” Roger was staring again.
“Sorry, you just– your smile reminded me of—”
“I tend to remind people of– one of those faces, you know? Who was it, if you don’t mind?” There was no reason for the man to ask that, other than the sake of conversation.
“Her name was April. She died.” And there was no reason for Roger to say that, other than the sake of conversation.
A look of sympathy mixed with uncertainty flashed across the man’s face. His candle must’ve felt it too because it had gone out. “Oh, I’m sorry for your– oh my candle. Would you?”
Roger struck another match and lit the candle once more. He lingered a little too close for a little too long to the stranger.
“Thanks–” the man hissed in pain. Roger backed up, suddenly aware of the lack of personal space.
“Oh, the wax–”
“It’s dripping.”
“Right.”
“Right.” The two men stood there awkwardly facing each other.
“Well, good night.” There was no elegant way Roger could think of ending the conversation. So he just sort of shut it down.
The man left and Roger was alone again. It was such a strange moment. Roger was about to pick his guitar up when he was once again interrupted by a knock at the door. “Is your candle out again?”
“No,” the man said. “I think I dropped a strip of film.”
“I swear I’ve seen you around; oh, your candle’s gone out.”
The man ignored the candle. “It's got some important stuff on it,” he said to Roger. “I swear I had it with me when I walked in,” mumbled the man, placing his candle on the floor. He had gotten on all fours and desperately started to look for his possession.
Roger was staring again.
The stranger took notice of this and bit back a smile. “Oh, and what are you looking at?”
Roger was hastily brought back to reality and became very flustered. “Just your– you’ve got a– I mean– you look familiar,” he managed to spit out.
“Like your dead girlfriend,” the man’s eyes went wide and he slapped his hand over his mouth. “Oh fuck, that was really not–”
“Only when you smile, but I swear I’ve seen you around.”
There was a sigh of relief from the man, though he was still quite embarrassed that he had said such a thing. “Do you hang around St. Mark’s often? I tend to do a lot of filming around there.”
“Yes! You got your camera stolen once and you frantically ran after the woman who took it. I remember thinking ‘wow, this guy is really uncoordinated.’”
“Ah, nice to be known for my work.”
“I didn’t recognize you without the scarf.”
“Could you light it again?” The candle had gone out again. Roger mindlessly relit it, becoming used to the routine.
“You’re gonna die from pneumonia, constantly filming in the cold. How old are you?”
“Oh you know, probably around your age,” he said, leaning back onto a table leg. “I gotta film. It’s my passion, it’s my life, it’s what I was born to do. Help me look.”
Roger got down on his hands and knees to help the stranger look for his item. “Yeah, well good luck with that. As an artist, I can say that passion can only take you so far.” The man shivered, Roger took notice. “You gotta get a real job, you wouldn’t shiver like that, you’d be able to pay for your heat.”
The man rolled his eyes. “Oh yeah? And what do you do?” Roger was silent. “Right.”
The strip of film had made its way under the rug. Roger spotted it, “hey is this–”
“What?” the man said, crawling over to Roger.
“Oh, never mind. Just a wrapper.” Roger stuffed the film in his back pocket. Perhaps as a little keepsake to remember this bizarre interaction. He stood and helped the man up as well. The two sat on the table. It was nice. Roger blew out the candle, just to lengthen the interaction. “It’s out again. I’m out of matches.”
“Well thank God for the moon, I suppose,” the man shrugged.
“Not so sure if it’s the moon. I hear Spike Lee’s shooting down the street. Could be you someday.” Roger gently knocked his shoulder into the man’s shoulder.
“Yeah sure,” he said, sneaking his hands into Roger’s.
“Your hands are cold.”
“So are yours. Big, kind of like my father’s.” The man abruptly stood up, taking in the scene. Roger, so poised, gently illuminated by the light of the moon. He messed around with his camera. “Do you want to pose?”
Caught off guard, Roger said “for you?”
The man looked around. “No,” he said. “For my father.”
“I’m Roger,” awkwardly, he stuck out his hand. The man shook it and smiled.
“I’m Mark.”