30 reasons why - Roger Taylor

-REASON EIGHT-

June 14th,  1979.

"I just don't get it, Brian. We were doing so well, and now we're arguing again," Rosie groaned as she held her phone up to her ear. "It just doesn't make sense."

She could hear him sigh on the other side of the call. "What is it this time?"

"So I woke up this morning, I walk out into the living room and see Roger there, sitting on the couch and watching one of those American football matches. I go over and he's mad because I had completely slept through the alarm he set up, so we could go on a walk this morning."

Same argument, different day.

If Rosie had got a dollar for every time Roger was mad about her sleeping through plans he wanted to do in the morning, she would be rich off her ass because it happened so much before any of this thirty reasons why shit. It just so happened that every time it happened, she would always be sitting on the couch, emptying her problems out to Brian on the phone.

But that argument between Roger and Rosie took place just hours ago, 1pm.

It was her standing her ground and knitting her eyebrows together, annoyed and yelling about how ridiculous Roger was. And it was him immediately getting up from the couch and shouting a string of profanities to Rosie, his hands making gestures towards the front door as if he were telling her to get out.

"It's just a fucking walk, Brian. I don't see how he could get so mad over that." Rosie pinched the bridge of her nose. She knew Roger wanted to go on a morning walk—as he told her last night—but she didn't know it was that important to the man.

"You know, Rosie, he's trying," Brian told her, and she could almost picture him talking on the phone with her as he pauses a movie right in front of him. "Roger is trying. He really wants you to stay."

"I know, it's just—" She felt like crying over something she had experienced way too many times to begin with. "Everything was going so good. We didn't argue for two days, and now we're back to shit."

"It's good that you guys went on a two day no arguing streak. Making progress."

Rosie smiled a little. "I just wished we didn't have to argue all the time."

"Where is Roger now?"

"He locked himself in the bedroom after the argument. God knows what the hell he's doing."

After subsequently yelling and shouting at Rosie in the living room, the Brit stormed off to their room and locked the door.

--

"I feel like an asshole, you know, Fred?" he said, laying on the bed and looking at the ceiling as if it were the most interesting thing in the world. His hand held the phone close to his ear, awaiting for the response of none other than Freddie Mercury.

It was a Wednesday afternoon (not really, it was nearing six by the time Roger decided to ring Freddie), and the last thing he wanted to do was lay in bed alone, talking to a friend for relationship advice.

Not once in his entire life has Roger Taylor ever thought of asking Freddie for relationship advice.

There was this one time a couple years ago where he asked what to get Rosie for her twenty-second birthday, and Freddie responded with emotional support and a "good night."

Lesson learned—do not call Freddie Mercury for relationship advice.

But Roger was desperate. He needed to repair their relationship, not make it worse.