And Your Girl Can Sing

Chapter 72: Night

While John was upstairs with Martin, I silently made my way to the front door, patting down my jacket pockets and making sure I had everything. The world at night looked the same out of the different colored panels of glass on the front door. Liverpool was quiet, or at least Menlove avenue was. I wasn't sure about the rest of Liverpool, like Ringo's area. George's remark on our way to the party: I heard it was a bit of a rough area.

I heard the thumps of feet on wood, John coming down the stairs. "Cora?" in a low voice. He quickly made his way towards the front door as if he knew I was planning to leave.

"Shh, Mimi," I said, remembering.

"Yer leaving?" He ignored this.

"I've got to get home, John. It's late."

"Precisely. It's two in the morning. You can't make the hour trip back to George's. Listen—" He was suddenly interrupted by a quiet knock at the door. A blurry figure stood outside, but we recognized him in seconds. "It's Neil," I exclaimed in recognition, and reached forward to open the door. The dark haired road manager stood outside carrying two cases, looking tired. "Hey you two. John, I thought you might be home."

"Oh shite, I'm sorry mate," John said, and I echoed his apology. Neil gave us a smile and trooped back to the waiting van outside. I watched my chance of a ride get into the van and pull away.

"Why didn't you ask him for a ride home?" John asked, curious.

"It's late and he looked exhausted. Let the poor bloke sleep."

I traced a pattern on the floor with my foot and finally asked, "Can I sleep on the couch?" My question came forth like a faulty appliance, toggled with roughly until the thing worked. That was how it was nowadays. Forced conversation, mixed feelings. John nodded. I followed him upstairs, my mind waterlogged with fatigue. He went inside his room and hesitated before taking out a shirt and rubbing the material between his fingers. "Don't sleep in those dirty clothes."

I shook my head, stubbornly refusing to take his clean clothes, keeping my dirty ones on, even though tight pants weren't the most comfortable thing to sleep in. "All right," John said, resigned. "Hats off to ye, then, for sleeping in those pants. There's the bed."

"I'm not sleeping there," I said.

"I'm not bloody sleeping in it, so you don't have to be with me if you're so inclined." I blinked back sudden tears at his harsh tone, noting the contrast between his clean bed, the salmon pink bedspread, the fluffy white pillow and me, who was sweaty and smelled of trash. "John," I begged weakly. "I'm sleeping there because I don't want to mess up your bed."

"Get in," he said, but it wasn't a command.

We exchanged some back and forth arguments, both of our words dulled by the lateness of the night, and they ended up sounding like dull firecrackers, meant to cause flare, but failing to pop. I won out, and turned my back on the bed, saying I'd sleep on the couch and when I got downstairs to the darkened living room my body crashed against the couch. I exhaled, a long release of breath, thinking about what I had said to Danny months ago. I have to plan. We have to plan. Time is running out. The statement made me feel exhausted, and I said good night, which came out like it had a question mark at the end of it.

"Are ye all right, Cora?" John asked softly, walking towards me.

"Yes," I said. "Thank you for letting me stay on the couch. Good night," I repeated, steadier than the last time.

I waited for him to leave for a few moments, but when I turned around and my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I could make out a sleeping body lying on the carpet, breathing deeply, of maybe just pretending to. A sense of deja vu crossed my mind as I remembered counting "Sleeping bodies one, two, and three" that very first windy day at the Kaiserkeller in Germany, and wondering if they were asleep, or just merely pretending to.