This Boy

13. 9th October

  I was turning eighteen. An adult. Aunt Mimi had made a big cake and, to my surprize, even bought me a proper expenssive guitar. Nothing like her reaction to my first £5 red guitar. All the Quarrymen members were invited to the birthday party. Even, shamelessly, George and Paul had come. At least, they cared. I still tried my best to avoid them and stick to my friends. My class friends. However, I also noticed Paul with his eyes glued to George; whereas, George ignored his friend's stares. I didn't understand what was going on between the two of them. Did they like each other? Was George scared. Was this all a joke? What was happening? I just could not tell any of it. I thought to myself, "Why should I worry so much? Paul doesn't need me like he claimed he would. I don't need him. I don't want him, either." Then only it stung my brain. Did I not really 'want him'? No, I really didn't. Did I not 'need him'. I wasn't sure. Without Paul, it was like being smothered and helplessly gasping for oxygen. It was hard with knowing that he didn't love me. That all those sweet moments were of no use. That those times, that I wanted to save in a bottle, would have to be poured out. 

  I stopped worrying too much and looked away from Paul and George. I looked directly across the room and tried to figure out the familiar figure. I could not be sure if it was who I thought it to be, for my eye sight was rubbish. I squinted through the crowded room, filled with dancing boys and girls to Rock 'n' Roll music. I squeezed through the crowd to have a closer look. And she was. I fixed my hair and checked a mirror that was hung upon the wall. Then, I walked up to her, trying to act cool. 

  "Hey," I greeted in a calm voice, holding a glass of wine in my hand, offering it to her.

  "Happy birthday, John!" she giggled.

  "Thanks, Cyn." I laughed. "Here," I brought the glass forward, for her to take.

  "Oh, thank you!" she immediately took a sip, almost as if to calm her nerves. "You're eighteen already."

  "Aah... yeah, I am, I guess." I said touching her fair blonde hair. "What about you?"

  "I'm older than you John; by a year." she giggled shyly.

  "Only by a year. So you're nineteen?"

  "Yes," she smiled. "I'm still older than you."

  "And what's your reason to remind me that?"

  She shook her head and laughed, "You've got a way of speaking, you know John."

  "Do I?" I stepped closer to her, as my taller figure towered over her, shadowing her hair from shining.

  She gulped and blushing, she smiled, nodding.

  "Is that a good thing?" I whispered.

  "Well," she laughed softly. "To me everything about you is..." she stopped mid-way.

  "Is what? What is it, Cynthia?" I stroked her warm, red cheeks.

  "Beautiful." she looked  down at her hands. "You are beautiful, John Lennon."

  "And you are too..." I leaned down to her neck.

  "But," she moved away. "I'm still older than you are."

  "What kind of excuse is that?" I grinned. "Trust me, you'll want me real bad."

  "How are you so sure?" she smiled.

  "Cos I know, everynight you feel lonely..." then I leaned in and whspered. "Like your bed gets cold. Like you need somebody by your side."