Yesterday.

I kept my distance as we walked through the crowed, murky streets of the city. I kept looking over at her, like she was a ghost. I felt guilty for even thinking her so after wards, but she kept drawing my gaze back over.

That day I could have sworn she was an angel from heaven. Everything was in slow motion again. As she walked, her long, dark chocolate brown hair bounced gracefully from down her back, about half way down. It was strait, except for thick, messy curls at the end. It was nothing like the fakies walking around here with their hair piled on top of their heads in ugly beehives, with too short skirts and low cup sweaters. She seemed like she kept to her own style. She was too colorful to be a rocker chick, too rough to be a mod, too tight to be artsy. I couldn’t fit her under any stupid label that ran through my head. She was, her. She was dressed in black leggings, with a yellow shirt and a red jacket that was long, and fell down to her thighs in a tight, flattering way. She had a yellow skirt on that was kind of short, but not like the prostitutes we encountered in Hamburg. She wore converse, which was odd for a Liddypool lass.

As much as I tried to keep my eyes to myself, I couldn’t. It was like she was a magnet. I wanted to walk over to her, to touch her perfect face, to hold her in my arms and tell her that I loved her and would never leave her, but that wouldn’t go down to well with the boys.

At the thought, I looked up to see Paul blabbering away at her, a sheepish grin on his face. The conversation we had just had back at his place had shaken me, but bothered me even more now. I felt like she belonged to me, and only me. But what if she liked him too? I studied her face. She didn’t look like she was paying much attention to what he was saying. Her eyes were on him, but her head was somewhere else. I could tell. His thoughts were very far away, actually. I didn’t know how I could know, but I did. Now I only wish I knew what she was thinking about. Probably how much she hated me for giving her the weird reaction in the Cavern. It probably looked like I hated her, or something along those lines. But truthfully, I was scared. Scared because someone who’s been very self dependent and been a swinger for all of his life now felt desperate, and defeated.

I shrugged the thought off. I didn’t need her. I need my guitar, mouth organ, and throat. That’s what I needed. Not some girl who apparently belonged to my best friend, and I don’t even know.

“Right, John?” I heard George’s voice come from somewhere to my left, and I looked over quickly.

“What?” I sighed, cocking an eyebrow.
“Not listening again, Lennon?” He joked, nudging me. I shrugged.
He rolled his eyes and continued.
“I was saying, when you weren’t listening, that Paul’s a darn good bassist, the best, right?” He looked over at me and almost winked, but didn’t. I saw the scheme. He was helping a friend, Paul being that friend, by trying to impress her.
“No, he’s terrible. Should’a stayed a rhythm guitar.” I muttered.
“Pardon?” Paul glanced over at me. I swallowed, hoping that I didn’t say that too loud.
“I said that he’s amazing, so much better than our previous bassist, though Paulie isn’t as smooth with women than Stu.” I smirked at him, and winked, though the statement was my own silent was of trying to make her hate him. I wish it was possible. Maybe if I slammed his perfect face into a brick wall, and then had a train run over it. Maybe then she’d hate him.

“Aw, badger off.” He smirked, wrinkling his nose. She giggled.
Was it my comment, or the way he wrinkled his nose?

I grimaced, and kept walking forward. I didn’t want to pay attention to this obvious set up. I kept imagining things in my head, or making up fake names for people. I didn’t quite understand why I did, but I did.

In the background, I could still hear Paul bragging all about all of his accomplishments, and George helping him rant and rave. I felt like a third wheel, here. I couldn’t take this anymore. My mouth acted before my mind did.

“Hey Anna?” I stopped and glanced over at her. She froze, and looked at me, almost frightened about what I was about to say. I wanted to hold her again, tell her it was okay, but I swallowed hard and tried to concentrate. I had to do it now, or I would look like a complete and utter wank.

“Um…” I thought over the words carefully. I glanced up at Paul, who was stabbing me repeatedly with his eyes. He must have guessed what I was about to blurt from our earlier conversation, “Would you like to go to the cinema with me sometime? Or maybe dinner…?” I was almost shaking with anxiety, but I held it in.

It was silent for a moment, as a cold shock ran through her face. First, it went pale as the grave, then a dark stream of blood rushed up and filled the place above her cheek bones.

“Um, Sure, John.” She smiled at me, a kind of confused, bashful smile. I smiled back.

“Right.” I smiled too, probably too goofy than intended, but kept walking. I could hear her walk after me, and George finally too, but the third set of footsteps stayed frozen.
I turned and cocked my eyebrow.
“You coming, McCartney? Or are you just going to stand there, looking like a mule?”

He glared, and started walking, his footsteps heavier than the rest of ours.
Victory, but what did this mean?