Categories > Theatre > Rent > Cutting Room Floor
AN: As per usual, the characters here all belong to Jonathan Larson.
"Work should be illegal on days like this," Mark muttered, lingering just inside the door to the publishing factory. He peeled a half-frozen clump of hair off of his forehead and removed his glasses. Wiping them on his shirt did little more than smudge lenses so he sighed, shoved them back on and hoisted his camera bag back up to his shoulder.
Only seven flights of stairs between him and dry clothes.
Throwing open the door to the loft, Mark called a half-hearted 'I'm home' and shed his waterlogged coat.
He sighed and looked around. Roger lounged on the couch, where he'd probably been all day and would most likely remain all night. No sign of Maureen. Maybe he could actually stay inside tonight.
"Oh, Marky!"
The sound cut through his clothes and chilled Mark to the point of hypothermia. So much for dry clothes and tea, he thought and turned to face the stairs to the bedrooms.
"Mark, pookie," Maureen crossed the room to him in three steps and ran her hands through his hair. Here it comes. "Did you remember to pick up my dry cleaning?"
"Well, no, but-" She put a finger to his lips.
"Pookie..." She stretched it out. God, it was hard to stay mad at her when she did that. "I need my shirt for tomorrow."
"But it's rain-" Again with the finger.
"Do you want me to go out there?"
"Well, no, Maureen."
"Do you want me to get sick?"
"Of course not, Maureen."
"Then you'll go get it for me?" She puffed out her lip and looked up at Mark with the biggest brown eyes he'd ever seen. "Please, Marky?"
He stared at the floor. "Yes, Maureen."
"We told them light starch this time?" She helped him back into the wetsuit he called a coat.
"I did, Maureen."
"What would I do without you?" After planting a dizzying kiss on him, she opened the door.
"I don't know, Maureen."
"Hurry home, pookie!" And then she closed the door, shutting him in the stairwell.
"...Yes, Maureen..."
"Work should be illegal on days like this," Mark muttered, lingering just inside the door to the publishing factory. He peeled a half-frozen clump of hair off of his forehead and removed his glasses. Wiping them on his shirt did little more than smudge lenses so he sighed, shoved them back on and hoisted his camera bag back up to his shoulder.
Only seven flights of stairs between him and dry clothes.
Throwing open the door to the loft, Mark called a half-hearted 'I'm home' and shed his waterlogged coat.
He sighed and looked around. Roger lounged on the couch, where he'd probably been all day and would most likely remain all night. No sign of Maureen. Maybe he could actually stay inside tonight.
"Oh, Marky!"
The sound cut through his clothes and chilled Mark to the point of hypothermia. So much for dry clothes and tea, he thought and turned to face the stairs to the bedrooms.
"Mark, pookie," Maureen crossed the room to him in three steps and ran her hands through his hair. Here it comes. "Did you remember to pick up my dry cleaning?"
"Well, no, but-" She put a finger to his lips.
"Pookie..." She stretched it out. God, it was hard to stay mad at her when she did that. "I need my shirt for tomorrow."
"But it's rain-" Again with the finger.
"Do you want me to go out there?"
"Well, no, Maureen."
"Do you want me to get sick?"
"Of course not, Maureen."
"Then you'll go get it for me?" She puffed out her lip and looked up at Mark with the biggest brown eyes he'd ever seen. "Please, Marky?"
He stared at the floor. "Yes, Maureen."
"We told them light starch this time?" She helped him back into the wetsuit he called a coat.
"I did, Maureen."
"What would I do without you?" After planting a dizzying kiss on him, she opened the door.
"I don't know, Maureen."
"Hurry home, pookie!" And then she closed the door, shutting him in the stairwell.
"...Yes, Maureen..."
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