The Attic

Three

John’s hands shook as he pried open the cover. The flat was silent.

One single lamp lit up the couch John was sitting on, ramrod straight, because he felt down to his smallest fiber that what he was doing was immensely wrong.

            Today, something happened worth writing about.

 

            Something good, you know. Something that made life seem a little less shitty.

 

            I think I’m in love. I’ll never meet someone like that again.

            John bit his lip anxiously, this was it; he met Paul a year or so after his mum passed.

            She looks just like Brigitte Bardot, I swear.

            John let out an audible groan.

            I mean, that face, and don’t even get me started on the rest of her. And she said I was cute! Well, cute wasn’t exactly what I was going for, seems a bit demeaning even. But I’ve got her number, and I think I’ll be seeing her again.

             John flipped through several other pages of Paul’s thoughts about exams and birds and what George taught him to do on the guitar, before finally landing on the entry concerning him.

            Met John Lennon today. Everything they said and more.

            Paul’s entry was uncharacteristically short and concise. John turned back to the page before to compare.

            Well, I dunno. German and Spanish seem fun but it doesn’t feel like a natural gift like music is. It feels like I have to study and think too much like I’m forcing myself to do this. For example, today I was supposed to describe my room in German and I’d forgotten the word for “bed” and suddenly I couldn’t remember anything that was in my room. And I’ve had that room for a while. Which makes me worry that maybe I’ll have a bad mark. Da will be upset. I know that I’m upsetting him. It was just a difficult question!

            John smirked. His entry was definitely out of the ordinary.

*   *   *

            “Is everything alright?”

            “Course it is,” Paul said out of habit. He rubbed his temple slightly, letting out a sigh that carried the troubles of the world in it.

            Linda sat down next to him and patted his hand. “You can tell me,” she said.

            Paul looked into her eyes. Oh, how he wanted to be able to love her like he did John. Everything would be so much easier then, he’d be nice and happy at home, he’d have everything he wanted just at his fingertips.

            But how could he explain how much it changes you to go through everything together, to live in the worst of places, in a foreign country, playing yourself to exhaustion, chasing fame, never stopping, then running not after fame but away from the fans, an exhilarating race that doesn’t leave you time to catch your breath, and that has no pity for those who stumble and fall.

            “I love you,” Paul said, but it felt empty, and hurt all the more.