Categories > Theatre > Rent > The emotions of Mark Cohen
Of all of the people, Maureen Johnson was the last girl Mark ever thought he'd have a chance with. Sure, they didn't go to the same school, but he'd always known her. The first time he remembered meeting her, he was five, she not much younger. It wasn't just that she was pretty, it was that she was annoyingly pretty. She had more energy than his mother and both of his sisters combined. She toddled up to him, cocked her head, and in the way only little girls who know how pretty they are can, grinned at him. "You're silly looking." Pulling his hair, and sending him crying back to his mother, she toddled off.
Not exactly what most would think of as the start of any sort of lasting relationship. However, she kept showing up, and in all the wrong places. Or perhaps the right places. She was at birthday parties, Community Center dances, and his Bar Mitzvah, where she stole his prized possession and ran around with it, filming him, in addition to everyone else in the synagogue.
It was only when he was sixteen, going to the Community Center more to watch people, and to film every so often, that he really got to know her. She still had all the life he's remembered from when he was five, but she also had an edge, something different, something that was attractive. It was shocking, really, when she started actually talking to him, pulling him away from Nanette once in a while. Refreshing, frankly, as Nanette was a bit too clingy most of the time.
"Why's she your girlfriend, Mark?" It came out of nowhere. Maureen was pouting at him, while he got a drink at one of the seemingly interminable Youth Dances.
"Er, she's nice, and I like her.... and...."
"And your mom told you to, right?" Maureen grinned, and grabbed Mark's hand. "Come on, let me show you how a real girl dances." And she did, right there, in front of everyone, they danced a rather passionate tango, the the surprise of the dance chaperones, and the horror of Nanette, who came stomping over.
"Mark is -my- boyfriend, whore." She sneered at Maureen. "Everyone knows about your conquests, about how you take everyone's boyfriends. You're not doing it to mine." She grabbed Mark's hand. "Come on. Markie. I think it's time you drove me home."
"Oh, I see the way it is, Nanette. You keep him on such a short leash, that he doesn't even have the chance to think for himself." Maureen sneered. "And really, Nanette, what do you know about anything anyway? You really don't know anything about me. I would think that you, of all people would know the difference between a reputation and the truth. Bitch."
It was only one of the chaperones coming over to separate the two girls that saved Mark from an even worse scene. A few weeks later, at an event that Nanette mercifully wasn't at, Maureen pulled him aside. "You don't need her, Mark. You need a real girl, not someone who's in it for, well, I sure as hell don't know what." Mark shrugged, but before he could say anything, she pulled him close and kissed him. Not gentle, innocent kisses like he'd seen in movies, but the real thing. She put everything she had into her kisses, all her passion and life.
When she pulled away, all Mark could do was stare at her. "Perhaps now, Mark, you'll realize what it is to have a real girl." After that, well, nothing was the same. He'd fallen for her, but wouldn't admit it to himself. He hung on with Nanette till gradution, but she went off to college in Chicago, and he went to Brown. Maureen, on the other hand, went to New York, to make her fortune. Or so she said.
A year and a half later, she turned up. Right there, on his doorstep, with that grin of hers. Five hours later, when he was dragging her back to his room, drunk off his ass, he finally admitted it to himself. He was in love with her. Half a year later, they were together, living with a rather motely crew of Bohemians in Manhattan.
He knew she cheated. How could he not, when some nights she would come home, later and later, clothes dishevelled, and too tired to even say goodnight as she slipped into bed. He didn't ask. It was her business. It bothered him, but what he wanted was her to be happy. If that wasn't with him, well, he'd get over it. He had no other choice. That's what you do when you love someone.
If he really thought about it, he'd admit that it hadn't come as a surprise. Perhaps her timing sucked more than usual, but it wasn't a total shock. He was working on a screenplay, Roger was in the shower. She came into the Loft from the hall. "Pookie? I have a girlfriend now. I'll see you later, alright?" And she just left before he could say anything. What could he say to that? Four hours later, she came back. "Oh, I forgot my stuff." And she took her stuff, packed what she could in about half an hour and she was gone.
That's what comes from loving Maureen Johnson. When you're dancing her dance, you don't stand a chance, her grip of romance make you fall. You pretend to believe her, but in the end you can't leave her. That was one thing Mark knew all too well, from the woman who'd taught him what passion really was.
Not exactly what most would think of as the start of any sort of lasting relationship. However, she kept showing up, and in all the wrong places. Or perhaps the right places. She was at birthday parties, Community Center dances, and his Bar Mitzvah, where she stole his prized possession and ran around with it, filming him, in addition to everyone else in the synagogue.
It was only when he was sixteen, going to the Community Center more to watch people, and to film every so often, that he really got to know her. She still had all the life he's remembered from when he was five, but she also had an edge, something different, something that was attractive. It was shocking, really, when she started actually talking to him, pulling him away from Nanette once in a while. Refreshing, frankly, as Nanette was a bit too clingy most of the time.
"Why's she your girlfriend, Mark?" It came out of nowhere. Maureen was pouting at him, while he got a drink at one of the seemingly interminable Youth Dances.
"Er, she's nice, and I like her.... and...."
"And your mom told you to, right?" Maureen grinned, and grabbed Mark's hand. "Come on, let me show you how a real girl dances." And she did, right there, in front of everyone, they danced a rather passionate tango, the the surprise of the dance chaperones, and the horror of Nanette, who came stomping over.
"Mark is -my- boyfriend, whore." She sneered at Maureen. "Everyone knows about your conquests, about how you take everyone's boyfriends. You're not doing it to mine." She grabbed Mark's hand. "Come on. Markie. I think it's time you drove me home."
"Oh, I see the way it is, Nanette. You keep him on such a short leash, that he doesn't even have the chance to think for himself." Maureen sneered. "And really, Nanette, what do you know about anything anyway? You really don't know anything about me. I would think that you, of all people would know the difference between a reputation and the truth. Bitch."
It was only one of the chaperones coming over to separate the two girls that saved Mark from an even worse scene. A few weeks later, at an event that Nanette mercifully wasn't at, Maureen pulled him aside. "You don't need her, Mark. You need a real girl, not someone who's in it for, well, I sure as hell don't know what." Mark shrugged, but before he could say anything, she pulled him close and kissed him. Not gentle, innocent kisses like he'd seen in movies, but the real thing. She put everything she had into her kisses, all her passion and life.
When she pulled away, all Mark could do was stare at her. "Perhaps now, Mark, you'll realize what it is to have a real girl." After that, well, nothing was the same. He'd fallen for her, but wouldn't admit it to himself. He hung on with Nanette till gradution, but she went off to college in Chicago, and he went to Brown. Maureen, on the other hand, went to New York, to make her fortune. Or so she said.
A year and a half later, she turned up. Right there, on his doorstep, with that grin of hers. Five hours later, when he was dragging her back to his room, drunk off his ass, he finally admitted it to himself. He was in love with her. Half a year later, they were together, living with a rather motely crew of Bohemians in Manhattan.
He knew she cheated. How could he not, when some nights she would come home, later and later, clothes dishevelled, and too tired to even say goodnight as she slipped into bed. He didn't ask. It was her business. It bothered him, but what he wanted was her to be happy. If that wasn't with him, well, he'd get over it. He had no other choice. That's what you do when you love someone.
If he really thought about it, he'd admit that it hadn't come as a surprise. Perhaps her timing sucked more than usual, but it wasn't a total shock. He was working on a screenplay, Roger was in the shower. She came into the Loft from the hall. "Pookie? I have a girlfriend now. I'll see you later, alright?" And she just left before he could say anything. What could he say to that? Four hours later, she came back. "Oh, I forgot my stuff." And she took her stuff, packed what she could in about half an hour and she was gone.
That's what comes from loving Maureen Johnson. When you're dancing her dance, you don't stand a chance, her grip of romance make you fall. You pretend to believe her, but in the end you can't leave her. That was one thing Mark knew all too well, from the woman who'd taught him what passion really was.
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