Love Always, Harry

"Thanks, Aiden. See you next time," Marvel Palatini smiled, handing over the box of saxophone reeds to the man in front of her. He was around twenty-two, with deep blond hair and dark brown eyes to match. He had been coming to Eighth Note for a few years now, always to purchase saxophone reeds and the occasional book of clean music sheets. Marvel wasn't one for not acknowledging beauty; this man was definitely a looker, and she had noticed him giving her long looks occasionally. But she just wasn't interest. Besides, she liked green eyes better.

"See ya la'er, Marvel," he smiled brightly, and turned to leave.

Marvel looked around the store. It was 2:30, which meant the small rush was long gone, and the later rush for the 3:15 appointments wouldn't come for a while. So, she had time to go over to her favorite piano and play a few tunes before another customer came in.

The melody was light and playful with a catchy tune to make anyone want to get up and dance. Marvel always smiled when she played it. It was the song she had been playing on the guitar when they first met, and it brought back so many fond memories that she liked to relive in her head. Memories of late night conversations, days together on Cheshire's streets, and a head of curly hair flashed before her eyes, and Marvel slowed down her pace to a full stop.

The picture she pulled out of her pocket was a little crumpled, worn, and torn on the left corner, which was messily fixed with some scotch tape. It was of him and her. She was smiling brightly at the camera she had been holding, her eyes a little crinkled in the corners. And he was using his hand to pull her head towards his lips as he kissed her cheek, his eyes squeezed shut in an almost comical matter, and his unruly hair covering the side of his head, but one could still see his face. It was her favorite picture of them together; they both had been so happy.

She missed him. There wasn't a doubt about that. She missed the way he used laugh loudly at one of her lame jokes, and then he'd tell her one of his lame jokes just to get her to laugh in return. And the way he'd hold her hand always; he always had to have some contact with her, whether that was an arm around the shoulders or waist or holding hands, contact was always needed with him. But she liked that; he had told her once that it gave him the confirmation that she was with him, and he was with her, and that they couldn't be separated.

She also liked when he'd tease her about things, like the way she would always scratch her belly right after she got up, and the way she'd say certain words because of her American mother and British father. He'd tease her about her height, say five foot three was dwarf sized compared to him, but she'd say he was a giant freak with a mop of hair. But she loved his hair; the messy curls that were purposely thrown to the side of his head. She always liked how he'd run his hands through his hair and bring it to the side; he'd do it when he was bored, nervous, stressed. Anytime, really. But it was cute; he was known for it.

But what she missed most was the way he just used to act around her. He'd be so sweet and kind towards her, always knew the right words to say. And he just knew what to do. And at other times he'd be so seductive, so sexy, inviting her in so they could make love and have fun. He was perfect. He really, really was. And she loved him.

Until It happened, capitalized letter and all, and Perfect Harry became I Really Hate You Harry and Don't Talk To Me Right Now Harry, and How Could You Do That Harry and well, yeah. He became a lot of things that night.

And after his drunken mistake, she thought about it long and hard for three months. Had Harry really meant to do that? Nah. Besides, it wasn't like they did anything bad. That slag went down on him, he accepted (what guy wouldn't, she justified). But still, it was the principle of the thing, and she had been heartbroken over it.

Marvel had forgiven him a long time ago, he just never came after her. And that was what made her so angry, so sad. He had seemed so sorry the day after, why didn't he try harder?

------

By the time Marvel arrived home, the sun was beginning to set. Her mother was home and in the kitchen finishing up dinner, and by the smell of it, it seemed like they were to have spaghetti and meatballs, her mother's favorite.

Marvel greeted her mother with an absent kiss on the cheek, then sat down after she set the table. Her mother set a heaping plate of that night's dinner in front of her, but Marvel wasn't one to complain. She hadn't eaten since noon, and it was nearing six now.

"Is everything ready for Willow?"

Marvel grimaced a little, but nodded nonetheless. "Yes, I've moved everything from that side of the room." She wasn't looking forward to her older sister's (only by two years) grand return at all.

Though Willow was a beautiful girl, who had been raised the right way, she was a monumental slag and a relapsed alcoholic. Marvel had been the responsible, well-behaved child that her parents loved. Willow, however sweet she had been when she was growing, rebelled quickly when she was thirteen and there has been no stopping her. After moving to New York to follow a boyfriend (who definitely wasn't going anywhere far in life), she lived the backstreet life of a true New Yorker. Parties were almost as constant as the drug intake. Living in the States hadn't done much good for her at all.

After Drew (who now is in jail for possession of drugs) dumped Willow, and made her move on the streets, Willow's "friends" ditched her and acted as if she had never existed. Willow called home, bawling on the other line, and begged to come home.

Marvel's mother wasn't one to say no to a situation like that, buying her daughter a plane ticket the second she had said she wanted to come home.

Marvel had been against her sister coming home, but didn't express that, wanted to be the good child. So she sucked it up and raised her chin, agreeing to let Willow share a room with her once again.

Marvel finally went to bed around eleven after watching the television with her mother. They had been watching Britain’s Next Top Model reruns and wanted to watch to finale even though they knew who won already.

But that night, Marvel pulled the picture from under her pillow, and stared at it for a long time. It was a different one than the one she carried around with her. This one was just of Harry. His smile was bright and wide, showing off the dimples that Marvel loved dearly, and his green eyes sparkled like emeralds. She always looked at this picture before she went to bed, familiarize herself with his features that she had memorized already when they were dating.

She put the picture back and dreamt of curly hair and emeralds as eyes, just as she did every night.