Sometimes Mark and Roger used to go up on the rooftop late at night, when Mark couldn't sleep and Roger felt his limbs aching with the pain of withdrawal. They would bring a twelve pack of beer with them. They'd get drunk, Mark more easily and quickly than Roger, and then they'd lean over the low wall around the roof and watch the toy cars fifteen stories below rush by. Vision blurred by alcohol, they'd gaze at the blue neon signs saying "COIN LAUNDRY- CHEAP!" and "Wine And Beer OPEN 2R HRS." as they melded into rectangles of colour that burned into their eyes.

Mark would pull off his glasses and rub his eyes and slide down so he could sit, back firmly against the wall. Roger would watch the traffic go by for a few minutes more and then he would come and sit next to Mark, and the two would have another round of beer as they tried to rid themselves of the stained, imperfect pasts that tugged at the corners of their minds. Slowly, the liquor would blur the edges of their thoughts and let them settle into a relaxed, hazy state of mind.

First came the stupid jokes that only two loaded best friends would understand. Endless streams of endlessly pointless profanity fell from their mouths, spoken in between small grunts of laughter and more swigs of beer.

"You fucked a horse," Mark would say.

"You fucked a cow!"

"You fucked God!"

"Damn right I did."

Mark would get sleepy and silent, as he tried to lay comfortably against the cold, hard cement wall, with his feet out in front of him. Roger would toss small, dirty stones, trying to aim at the door downstairs, and missing every time.

Then Roger would feel the buzz dim his thoughts and his energy, and he would lean his head against Mark's, and Mark would lean back. Just the two of them, drinking in the fullness of the lights and colour and pollution of New York City at night.