Rent, Road Trip, crying
Mark was crying, yet it was not some regular, little crying everyone goes through while in their 20s and living in the goddamn Big Apple of the United States. At that point, the guy was full-on weeping, his eyes sore, nose one big snot, and face as red as the Toyota Corolla Roger had rented for their road trip a mere hour before the disaster struck. Now they were alone, in the well too overpriced car, on their way to an adventure neither of them felt like embarking on - Mark because Maureen had just left him, and Roger because he had to spend it with Mark whom Maureen had just left.
"How you doing, mate?" Roger asked carefully when the sobbing somewhat allayed. He glanced at Mark to examine his state - was he dead or merely just dying? - and feel out where he should go from now: was the answer a dumb joke, a heartfelt conversation, or a complete diversion?
Mark's face looked like a pale ripe tomato, tired of its colour but not exactly sure what to do with itself instead. On his knees, scattered around, laid used pieces of the toilet paper that he had taken from the back seat, which was meant to serve them for the following nights of wild camping they carefully planned for. Mark was supposed to pack a few more rolls, just in case, but since he most definitely did not, Roger just watched him blow his nose into the remnants of what was left and prayed for some good old constipation in the next few days.
Mark looked back at him with his bloodshot eyes. Then, something that kind of sounded like a human voice left his throat, "Not good."
A sigh. Roger thought about the miles they had travelled, the miles to come, the toilet paper, and the utter remoteness of where they were going. "Yeah," he muttered. "That's what I figured."