Your Mark on Me

Chapter 15: Friends

 Soon, my visits to Mark's house became an almost daily ritual.

The first few times, I was just proofreading his book. I came at dinner time and left before it got too late. When I finished proofreading a pile, a new one would have been written in the meantime. If there was nothing for me to read, then we'd just talk, so, seeing that he wasn't kicking me out, I started coming over more and more often.

Soon, it became a habit that he'd make dinner for two, and the dirty mugs in his office doubled.

We'd have tea and we'd brainstorm ideas whenever he got stuck. Mark said that my suggestions were always interesting and unexpected, but I didn't really think I had that much of a contribution. Somehow, just talking to me triggered the spinning wheels of his imagination.

Other times we'd have tea and speak about nothing and everything — those were my favourite times. Sometimes I'd tell him about school. The rumours had died down now; he'd been right in saying that the bullies would back down if I seemed unaffected. He absolutely hated Chloe, from all of my stories. He had mixed feelings about Roy. Anyhow, it felt safe and comforting to know that, whenever I felt like getting something off my chest, he would be on my side.

I got into the habit of playing the white upright piano while he was in the study, writing.

He enjoyed the music. He told me how it inspired him, how it was eerie to hear me playing while he wrote about Violet, the piano prodigy, how it felt as if she was truly real.

It was me who had come up with her name. The book was not just about Jeremy now, but also about her, two different points of view: the girl who had been abandoned, the father who didn't have a choice.

Sometimes, he would be writing and I'd just do my homework in the same room, and we wouldn't speak much at all, just keep each other company, because my own house was empty and lonely, and I think he felt lonely too.

I soon learned his schedule: on Mondays and Thursdays he was at the office, busy with his job, something to do with stocks and shares in healthcare — it sounded very boring and very grown-up. When asked what exactly it was that he was doing, he jokingly replied that he was just letting other, more knowledgeable people do the job while he would just pretend to agree with them, and sometimes, to disagree, so they wouldn't slack off.

Tuesdays and, sometimes, Saturday mornings were for business meetings. Wednesdays and the weekends were now only for writing, and for tennis, in the afternoon.

Some evenings he'd dine out and text me during the day, to let me know. On certain days he'd tell me in advance not to come by; I couldn't help but wonder where he was and, most importantly, who with.

On Sundays, if neither of us was busy, he started taking me out to concerts, to the theater, but most often, to art exhibitions, which, before him, I used to think of as a most boring past time. Soon, I knew all about the different currents and styles and how they came to be. For instance, hearing Mark tell me about Rothko's suicide and explain the innovation and controversy of his work, I learned to appreciate how those floating rectangles of color were not just mere shapes, but they had spiritual and philosophical, almost mystical connotations and, even though my interest in art was not as high as his, I enjoyed the excitement in Mark's voice whenever he spoke about it. I couldn't stop being amazed at how much he knew about everything.

Often, I'd fall asleep on the uncomfortable sofa; if I had school the next day, he'd wake me up and drive me home. If I didn't, he'd nudge me and I'd move to the bed, him taking the sofa instead. I can still remember the way I used to sniff his pillow, deeply breathing in the faint manly scent buried in the linen. Sometimes I hugged it, imagining it was him.