And Your Girl Can Sing

Chapter 4: Weed, And Why It's Good to Say No

I half expected to wake up and see John disappear like a poof of smoke but no, there he was, curled up beside me—beside me!

"John!" I yelped. "You're—my bed—"

He didn't stir, probably because he was used to all my yelling. I rolled my eyes and folded my arms, but my stiff posture unbent as I relented; my leg was pressed against his and I hastily removed it, feeling the particles between us dissipate, leaving me with a strange tingling feeling. He looked so peaceful while he slept, almost like a baby, looking relaxed, his only responsibilities breathing in and out. When he was awake, his mouth did a lot of the talking, but when he was asleep, I got to take him in, almost like a renaissance painting.

I got tired of looking at him. "Morning," I told him. "I think someone—you—are in the wrong place."

"Nah, it's you," he said conversationally, holding out his arms. "You, Cora, you should be here."

I was aware of my blush spreading to the roots of my hair. "Get up, you skive," I told him. "Any more come-ons and—"

"And what?" he asked, leaning his head on his elbow, giving me that infamous smirk, a finger reaching out to touch the waving ends of my shoulder length hair. "Just what will you do to me, love? Maybe I should stick around to find out."

I answered by giving him the two finger and leaving the room, going to upstairs to brush my teeth, hearing faint traces of John reciting Just William out loud.

He's just a right flirt, I told myself. Just trying to get up your skirt, like half the birds in Hamburg. Just ignore him, that's all he is, a bugger on the pull. My reflection stared back: below my straight brown hair were large brown eyes, small worried mouth, and dots of worry all round my T-zone. I saw a thoughtful look cross my face as I remembered yesterday, him standing behind me in that hawaiian shirt. Don't you dare, Cora, don't you dare. Besides, if he takes you back, you'll meet Paul, won't that be nice?

My reflection didn't move. The image of John in the pink apron wafted into my mind, his look of amusement that so quickly turned into embarrassed indignation when I threatened to capture this side of him on permanent memory. I smiled, and it smiled back at me. I stuck my toothbrush back in its glass and went outside to get dressed.

***

One's house usually runs out of things to do, but with John I had spent a pleasurable afternoon first rooting out more things from the closet, a vintage record player and vinyls. I tried to come out with things from before 1960 as I didn't want to throw a spanner in the works on the whole John-comes-to-the-future operation.

"That's it?" he had whined when I brought out three records: two Elvis and an Ella Fitzgerald. I nodded, but his complaint became lost when we found ourselves commenting on how the chords moved, the harmonies, and the way the music seemed to pull the listener into a world of one's own. Blimey, if he only stuck around to see the eighties—! But I didn't want to think about that. If I got too emotional I would cock up, things could get ugly fast.

And the second thing—smoking. The strong smell of a fag wafted through my nostrils and I moved to my left, the source of the smell coming from John, who had previously complained about the lack of smoking in 2013. "I need a ciggie after lunch," he had whined to me, and I had to resort to desperate measures, after giving him a CDC-worthy description of what exactly cigarettes did to your health. After ending with "Well, don't blame me if you get lung cancer," I hunted all around the house until I found an ancient pack in mum's closet.

"If this is a 2013 fag, well compared to 1960 the quality has gone down," John said after blowing a stream of smoke into the air. I made a face, telling him exactly what I thought about his hobby. "Quality of life has gone up, then."