Lovely Rita

"Right, do you know how you got here?" George initiated the discussion, turning off the radio in the kitchen while the rest of us sat around the coffee table at Paul's.
I bit my lip and ruffled my hair, trying to remember. I came across a lump on my head as I scratched, and stopped, dropping my hand down.
"That's it! I was outside the NEMS, except, well it was a little more," I stopped. I didn't want to break the news that Brian died yet, obviously. It wasn't for another year. Though it could save them ever breaking up if they made sure Brian was okay... No. I couldn't change the future even if I wanted to. The Beatles had their legacy and I liked that, and I'm sure the rest of the world did too. "run down and beat up. Guess the modern day kids got to it, huh?" I chuckled nervously. The others noticed the pause and looked at me curiously. I continued before questions ensued.
"And, this guy I -" I hit a brick wall again. Why was I being so annoying tonight? I asked myself, before remembering not to pause again.
"This guy I had been walking with - he'd offered to give me a ride home, but I decided I wanted to walk because I'd just eaten a huge meal. So anyway, he drove off. I was looking into the NEMS store window for this weird record I'd seen earlier, I can't remember what it was exactly - and suddenly this guy came out of nowhere and was talking about the NEMS store. He looked a bit odd, but he carried on his way. Then I started walking, and I felt woozy and bam! I woke up to some Liverpudlian guy prodding me. Then I bumped into Paul's car down that same street outside NEMS." I looked at Paul and smiled, reminiscing almost. He smiled back, though I could tell from those eyes he was troubled at having to find a way for me to get home.
"Right," George said, lighting up a cigarette. I looked on in horror, and took a deep gulp. All these memories of home and Brian brought back the fact that George dies from cancer in 35 years time induced by smoking. I had the sudden urge to take the cigarette away from him.
"George, put it out." I looked stern and he could tell something was up. He started going all jerky and pointed to the cigarette awkwardly. I nodded and he rolled his eyes and stubbed it out. I gave the rest of the guys an 'it's for his own good' face, though they were completely clueless.
"Anyway," George continued, finding something new to do with his hands (i.e. fiddling with peeling bits of the lining on the counters in the kitchen) "what you're saying, is that you basically knocked yourself out on a path as far as you know, and you woke up here?"
"Yes." I nodded.
"Well it's completely bloody absurd. But you're here and we're real, so you must be too. And we're good with absurd." George said.
John was furrowing his eyebrows, staring intently at the coffee table and scratching his chin.
"What if we knock you out again?" John suggested. I was a little taken aback, and I noticed Paul move next to me and slip an arm round my waist.
"No." Paul protested, rubbing my side.
"Maybe he's right though, Paul. I mean, I did get here through hitting my head. Maybe you wouldn't have to do it. I could throw myself to the mob. I assume they've gathered you're seeing someone now?" I chuckled. He didn't seem to see the funny side.
"Paul, I think John's onto something. She doesn't have to get hurt necessarily, don't worry." Ringo reassured him. George was scanning his mind for a less extreme way, being the spiritual lad he was.
"I guess. I just don't like the thought of you lot knocking my girl out." He said, subtley holding me tighter. I could feel it though. His protective streak was coming out and it was adorable. I also liked that he called me his 'girl'.
"Look, we can go back to where I was before and we can get someone else to hit me over the head with something if none of you want to do it, deal?" I said, holding my hands out and looking around.
"Sounds acceptable. As long as you're okay with it of course, Reets." John said, adorning me with yet another nickname. I nodded. "Paul?" John said, looking at the man now clutching me so close to him I was having difficulty breathing.
"I guess. Just, don't hurt her." He said, not really making eye contact with anyone. I could tell he was upset.
*****

The lads had all gone off to their seperate houses, except George. He wanted to stay. I felt better with him there - he had this calming aura that I really appreciated. I was just getting my things folded in Paul's room for when I returned (hopefully), getting my bag sorted and preparing to go tomorrow. I was absent mindedly tidying in Paul's room, and I felt the need to open the window and breathe in the 1960s air. I wanted to jar it and take it home. I wanted to jar what Paul smelt like and take it home. I wanted to take him home with me...
I got back to my folding and Paul entered the room, closing the door behind him. He had a look that said 'you're leaving tomorrow' and I knew exactly what he and I both wanted to do. I dropped the top I was folding and collided with Paul in a passionate kiss that we both knew would lead to more. We needed this; I was leaving tomorrow, after all.
His hands knotted themselves in my hair and I held onto his face, pulling him closer to me as we stumbled backwards towards Paul's bed. He released his hands from my hair and pulled my off my top, revealing my nude torso. I hadn't bothered with a bra. Brigitte Bardot never had. He smiled into our kiss, whispering "cheeky" inbetween breaths. I giggled back and unbuttoned his shirt clumsily, as we fell onto the bed together.
Those times with Paul were the ones I would treasure forever. Especially when we stayed cuddling. Paul would often fall asleep before me, and rest in my arms. It felt so right when I held him in those moments. I stroked his hair, revealing the baby eyes that were lightly blinking as he dreamt. I looked at him, taking in his beautiful face. He was such a pretty man. I thought about going home and it really daunted me. I'd lived such a different life to how I had ever lived before. My eyes filled with tears and I tried not to make a sound, but a few tears dropped onto Paul's wonderful head of hair. He blinked awake and rolled over to look at me.
"Baby, what's up?" He asked, sitting up and scooting over to be next to me. He put his arms around my waist.
"I don't want to leave you..." I said, nuzzling my head into his neck, drenching his chest with my tears. Paul stroked my hair and cuddled me. The time was nearing 1am and I wanted it to stop in this perfect moment. To me, the hours were just counting down to when I left.
"I don't want you to leave either, honey pie..." He sighed. We stayed in that embrace until I stopped crying. His body radiated warmth and I felt so secure and safe, and the cigarette he lit up and shared with me calmed me down.
"Sing me a song." Paul said, around 1.30am. I'd been absent mindedly playing with the sheets. I looked at him as if to say 'really?', arching one eyebrow. He smirked at me. I sighed and started humming a little tune as I layed down on my side. "No. I want you to grab a guitar and sing me a song on that stool over there." He said, smirking still. I sat up again, covering my chest with the covers. Paul motioned to the stool with his head. I rolled my eyes and left the bed.
I felt very self conscious as I walked over to the stool. I just knew he'd be watching me. I looked over my shoulder just to see. Yep! He smiled at me and I laughed.
I picked up the guitar and all of a sudden felt like Jenny in Forrest Gump. Paul looked on longingly from the bed. I tried retaining the heat I had recieved from him while I was exposed. I positioned the guitar so as not to expose myself majorly, and decided to sing that old Jenny classic; Dylan's 'Blowin' In The Wind' in the style of Joan Baez. I knew it had been released in '63, so I could get away with it.
I strummed the guitar and tried not to look at Paul to save from crying again. I was being such a sap tonight.

"When you sing, it's magic. You belong in Hollywood, baby." He smiled, quietly clapping after I finished. I brought the guitar back to the bed with me and handed it to him, indicating he was singing now.
"I know you're left handed, but I also know that you can play both ways." I said. He started playing it in the bed. "No. On that stool! I'm not having double standards." I said, and he sighed. I laughed at him, admiring his peachy bum as he left.

He decided to sing 'All My Loving." It made me happy because it was one of my favourite songs. It made me sad however, because I was going to be going away, and I could tell he actually meant it. That old style, velvety voice sang those lyrics and I could tell he was directing them at me. Another wave of tears decided to drop from my eyes and I pulled up the sheets to wipe them away as he finished up.
"That was beautiful." I said, having now had a personal performance from Paul McCartney while he was in the nude. That thought made me laugh; it was an anecdote I suppose. He put his guitar back on a stand and crawled up the bed to cuddle with me again.
Tomorrow was going to be torture.