If he hadn't been drinking, if he hadn't been lonely, if he hadn't latched on to the first person who'd shown interest in him since Tosh vanished (that wasn't Maureen because, face it Markie, Maureen would always be there), if he had been thinking at all he wouldn't have woken up on Wednesday morning with Roger's ex-boyfriend naked in his bed and he wouldn't have looked like the Clinique counter at Macy's.
Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck was all he could think. He needed to talk to someone, needed to try to get out from under the crushing guilt. Maureen was his first thought, which he quickly disregarded because he had a feeling she just wouldn't get it. And it wasn't like he had many friends to turn to. Not that would be understanding and yet not tell him it was all going to be okay. He found himself at Angua's, hoping he wouldn't have to face Dean and Roger, too. God, he wasn't ready for that. Just Angua. She'd...help. He hoped.
Close on Mark at the end of a walk of shame, knocking on a door that might open onto some perspective.