He heard his name being called, and stopped strumming his guitar for a moment, listening, to see if he had heard correctly.

The voice called again. "George? I'm home!"

He sighed to himself. It was Pattie. “I'm in here!” he called back to her

Footsteps down the hallway, as she walked down to find him in the music room, sitting in a chair, holding his guitar to him, leaning over the table, pencil in hand, scribbling furiously across the paper.

After a few moments he turned, and looked up at her. She gave him a small smile. He tried to give one back. “How are you?” she asked him, still standing in the doorway. Almost like a stranger. A stranger in her own home. Their home.

He shrugged indifferently at her.  “Fine. How was your day?” he asked in return.

He could see her blue eyes dancing. He wondered what had happened. “I got offered a job!” she finally exclaimed, much too happily for his liking.

He frowned, his eyebrows creasing, his dark eyes narrowing. “Modeling?” he asked. He didn't like her modeling. She didn't need to! She was beautiful, she knew it too, and he had enough money, more than enough, for everything she would ever want and need.

She nodded her head, a cautious look now overtaking the happiness that had been in her eyes only seconds before. She knew he wasn't fond of her modeling.

“Did you accept it?” he asked again, voice accusing.

Another silent nod from her.  Now she looked worried. She remembered the many arguments they had had over this in the beginning, when they had first married. He could be quite possessive sometimes, or, he used to be. Wanted her to be little wifey, back at home, waiting for him. How she hated that.

“Well,” he replied curtly, turning away and shuffling his papers together, “tell them you can't do it. There's been a change in plans.”

“But…” she started to protest.

He quickly turned back to face her, storm clouds brewing in his eyes, as he waited for her to continue. He didn't think she dared.

She did.  “I want to do this!” she blurted out, sounding very passionate about it.

He shook his head. “I don't want you to. You know that! Tell them you can't,” he repeated firmly, looking her in the eye.

Pattie frowned unhappily at him, clearly angry. “I want to do this George! It's only one modeling job! Why don't you like me doing it?”

He started to lift the guitar over his head. “Because I don't, all right! You don't have to do it! I have enough money for you!”

She sighed, blowing the air out from in between her lips, they had had this argument many times before. “It's not the money George!”

“Then why?” he asked, setting the guitar delicately down.

“Because I like to do it! I've always liked modeling, you know that! It's something I am actually good at!”

He strode over to her, feeling very angry now, that she was arguing with him. He hadn't been in a good mood in the first place. Come to think of it, he couldn't even remember the last time he had been in a good mood. Not recently, that was for sure.

“I don't want you doing it, and that's it, all right? No! Tell them you can't do it, all right Pattie?” He glared at her. She was silent. “All right?” he prompted again.

Pattie only huffed, and turned back out of the room, throwing, “I'm not going to stay in this house forever George!” behind her back.

George only stood there, leaning against the doorjamb, thinking for a moment, to himself. Trying to cool down his anger. They were having problems, to be honest. Quite a few problems, now. And it wasn't just because the band had broken up, to be honest, it wasn't that at all. It was just…he didn't see her often. She was out during the day, doing whatever she did, and he was, well, out, or in. It didn't matter. Sometimes he would sit and meditate, or write songs.

Or he would go out, for a drink, to see some mates. Whatever. But they weren't getting along too great lately. And, well, he wasn't always so faithful to her. He didn't like that fact much, hated it, but couldn't help it. He just couldn’t help it.

He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to get rid of all of the negative thoughts surrounding him, trying to clear his mind, to hear that comforting silence signaling the end of all the bad thoughts banging around inside his mind.

In that quiet, he heard her voice, talking, on the phone, a whisper, a nervous, low whisper. Who was she talking to? George opened his eyes again, and walked silently down the hall, to the direction of her voice, the kitchen. He tried to make out what she was saying, but could only hear bits of it.

“I'm sorry, but he…he won't let me! He's so…so…possessive!”

So, she was talking about him. But to whom? Maureen, maybe? Cynthia? No, he didn't think she spoke to Cynthia anymore. And it probably wasn't Linda, either. Who? Another one of her girlfriends?

He listened in closer, trying to move forward without making any noise. Straining his ears.

“Don’t worry, I'll find a way, I will, I promise.”

Another muffled part, then the person on the other side saying something, then, “me too,” more muffled whispers, “I will, tomorrow,” an answer, “yes,” then, “I love you too, Eric.”

~ * ~

George's mind reeled. Those words, those five little words, spoken in Pattie's sweet voice, to somebody else! Oh, Lord, no! And, Eric?

He shook his head, not wanting to comprehend just what that meant. No, he didn't like that thought. Not at all. Not a bit.

He moved away down the hallway, knowing that Pattie would soon exit the kitchen and catch him standing there, listening. He wasn't ready for confrontation, not yet.

It was a few moments before he saw her come out; she looked down the hall at him, curiously, biting her lip. I know! George wanted to say, I heard you! I know what you've been doing! But he didn't. He didn't say a word.

“George?” she asked, looking at him.

He looked at her a moment, his heart breaking as he thought about what he had just found out. Spontaneously, he decided to go out, to have a drink, get stark raving pissed, and forget it all. He grabbed his coat, looked back briefly at Pattie waiting down the hall.

“I'm going out,” he said as he yanked the door open. “Don't wait up.” he added shortly, before walking out the door, and slamming it shut. He stood a few moments, wondering just where he would go.

Anywhere. Any bloody place. A club, maybe, with lots of people? That would be good. A club with a whole load of different people in it, lots of birds. Lots of pretty ones. Yeah, and alcohol. He could forget the pain he was desperately feeling. He could numb it, for a while.

He opened the door to his car, slid himself in, shut the door, and started it up before driving off, speeding down the road, as if in a race, of some sorts. His fingers found the radio, switched it on. Out blared the voice of one of his 'friends.' A Wings song. Crap. He switched the station.

Oldies stuff. Old rock 'n' roll. Elvis, Chuck Berry, Buddy Holly. Stuff he liked. Yeah, that was good. He left it on, and for a while, he just drove around, thinking, trying desperately not to feel.

He eventually tired of aimlessly driving nowhere, the thoughts trying to invade his mind, banging with a hammer hard against his skull, screaming, 'Hello George! Here I am, those nasty little thoughts! Come on, let me in, think me!'

He shook his head.  Nope, no way. Not now. So, go to a club. Lots of loud noise, people, and beer to stop those nasty thoughts with their nasty hammers banging on his skull, trying to get in. Not tonight, he told himself, not tonight.

He turned the car around, driving back into main London, where all the good clubs were. He didn't care which one, any one, and soon parked his car somewhere. He made a mental note to remember where it was parked, but wasn't sure he actually would.

Into the club. Loud music. Dark room, dark lights, many people. Some he knew. “Hey, George!” “How're you, mate?” “What's happening?” George answered them best as he could, not putting on a fake face for anybody, and all the while continued his journey to the bar, where he could, thankfully, finally, get that long desired drink.

A strong one too, at that.

And strong it bloody was! He downed the first glass, just needing to get the alcohol into his system, get the mind-numbing effect of it urgently into his thoughts, where for a while, he could relax in the dulled, numbed recess of his newly forgotten memories, and forget what he had heard, forget it all. Another few glasses later, and he couldn't even remember why he had so desperately sought the alcohol.

Never mind, he shrugged, and his personality had perked up some, and he felt the urge to do something, anything, course through him. Because at the back of his mind lurked the memories of something dark. He didn't want those shadows to encompass his being, and make him remember.

Music.

Constant, beating, playing, living and moving, swaying all around him. He couldn't escape the music, and the pull of its rhythm, the calling of its melody and the comfort of the harmonies. He felt his body start to move and respond to the surrounding music, his one of many around.

Then, he spotted her. Beautiful. Amazing, her hair looked dark, it could have been the light, but he also could have cared less. The light shining around her tanned face, her dark hair up, above her head, strands falling and curling around. He could see eyes, dark, shining in the lights, so bright, so, so enchanting. And he felt lost in them instantly.

To his surprise, those dark orbs suddenly met his own and he felt electricity course through him, tingle the back of his neck. She was biting her lip, softly, with her perfect, white teeth. He felt his mouth move in what he thought might have been a smile. He picked up his half empty glass, number…he couldn't remember, downed the alcohol quickly, failing to notice his detachment to the world and surroundings around him, as he made his way across the floor to the woman, shining in the darkness of his shadow.

~*~

"What the fuck?" George sat up quickly in the very unfamiliar bed, in the very unfamiliar room, with the vaguely familiar woman, leaning over, whispering into his ear for him to wake up.

She laughed lightly, looking at the surprise on his face. The covers moved and shuffled around him as the woman climbed from the bed, naked. His eyes wandered over her well filled out, womanly body. Very nice, and his little friend agreed as well. It was then George realized he too was naked under the blanket, and that was the signal for the hangover to switch its evil self on.

He groaned as it pounded across his forehead, the pain reverberating through the back of his neck, his eyes closing involuntarily for a brief moment, as he grit his teeth. He always forgot about that part. After alcohol consumption, came the hangover. Bloody dreadful, as well!

The woman slipped a robe on, depriving George of his view, and turned back, smiling at him. Another realization. He had slept with this woman, the beauty standing there, and he couldn't remember a bloody bit of it! Dammit!

"Would you like some aspirin?" she asked, noticing the pain on his face. George felt himself nod, not even noticing, and she disappeared for a moment, giving him the chance to take in his surroundings.

It was a hotel room. He had seen and been in plenty of them in his life to recognize one. It wasn't the most fancy, just a nice, simple room. Good for one thing: sex.

And that is what he had gotten, and couldn't even remember! Damn, damn, damn!

She came back in then, and handed George some pills, and a plastic glass of water. He took them quickly, gulping them down, before looking up at her. Her hair was down now, fairly short, just a shade past her neck, and was a rich, dark brown, to match her eyes, her skin tanned. She was, indeed, beautiful.

He put the plastic cup down on the bed-side table next to him, before turning back to the woman, not even remembering her name, if indeed he even knew it, and feeling like the awkward fool. He cleared his throat, preparing to say something – what, he didn’t know - but she spoke first, smiling as she did so.

"My name is Susana, if you've forgotten, though I did tell you last night."

George felt himself blush slightly, as he nodded, acknowledging that she was indeed right.  "Yeah, thanks, erm, did we -"

"Have sex?" she interrupted him, a tiny tinkle of a laugh following. "Yes, we did. I'm sorry you don't remember it."

Feeling sheepish, a thought entered his mind, and he looked up at her, his eyes wide, pupils large, as he started to speak. "You could-"

"Remind you?" she interrupted again. "If you're feeling up to that!"

Another laugh, and George felt another blush and knew that he definitely was up for it, despite his pained, throbbing head. And this time, he would remember!

~ * ~

"G-George?" Pattie called out, unsure, "is that you?" Hand lightly holding the edge of the doorframe, as she peered down the hallway towards the door, the sound of keys rattling in the lock, and then, the door opening.

Behind the shadow of her husband, Pattie could see it was already quite dark out. It was only early evening.

"George?" She called again.

He looked up at her, his face blank of all emotion as he gazed at her. To Pattie it seemed almost as if he had forgotten who she was. The thought of that stung, hurt her hard.

George continued to stare, not offering her a word or a smile, or anything comforting. "Where have you been?" she asked him. She was so worried about him; he had been gone for all of last night, and the whole entire day as well. She had been wracked with worry all day, calling everybody she knew and could think of, sick out of her mind for George.

His eyes narrowed as he thought about his answer, and Pattie instantly knew she would not get a proper answer from him, nor the truth.

"Out," he replied simply, closing the door, locking it behind him, and shrugging off his coat, pulling off his shoes, doing little, trivial things, to avoid looking at her. Pattie knew what he was doing, and not sure at all why.

It confused her, because George's behavior had become increasingly stranger and stranger, she couldn't understand him anymore. They didn't talk like they once used to, didn't just sit, comfortable, or touch, or love, like they once did. It saddened Pattie, to think of the increasing gulf separating her and George, and how, she knew, deep down, that it would probably never manage to get repaired. Not now. It was too late.

"I called everybody, I was so worried George, you could have rang, or…or something! I was worried sick about you!"

"I told you not to wait up," was his flippant reply, thrown over his shoulder, as he walked further into the house, right past her and on the way to his sacred music room.

"No one knew where you were!" she persisted, trying desperately to get an answer, or anything, from him.

"I bet," he replied dryly, the words having a double meaning that they both knew Pattie didn't catch. His eyes flicked up to look at hers for only a split second, before returning back in front of him.

Pattie felt her breath catch in her throat as the comment registered, and clicked with his strange behaviour, his not returning last night. Oh, good Lord, he didn't know, did he?

She mentally shook herself. Of course not. He couldn't know. She had been so careful. So very careful. They both had. No, he couldn't, she decided, told herself, insisted. He didn't know a thing.

Thank God.

"Where did you go?" Pattie insisted.

George looked wearily up at her, obviously tired of this, he said slowly, "I was out."

Pattie sighed in exasperation. "But where?"

He turned away again, fixing his concentration on something else; looking into his music room, full of instruments and papers and everything he needed, as he leaned lightly against the doorframe. "At a bloody club, all right? Will you stop nagging me now?" he snapped out, finally losing his patience with this tiring game she had decided to play.

"A club?" She looked at him incredulously. She wasn't stupid. "All night?" George said nothing. She sighed again, angry. "You could have at least called me, George! Let me know where you were! I was out of my mind with -"

"I did call," he interrupted her.

Pattie stopped mid-sentence, looking at him, not catching what he had quietly said. "What?"

"I said," he repeated, "I did call you. This afternoon. No answer. So…" His dark eyes glinted with almost sadistic glee, as he said, "Where were you?"

Caught off guard. Pattie's eyes widened as she realized what he meant. Christ, she was caught out here! What could she tell him? Not the truth. No way. Her mind struggled quickly with a believable lie, as George waited, arms folded across his chest, for an answer.

Her mind snagged on the one. Of course, it would make him mad, really angry, but it was better than the truth! Much better. "I went for a meeting today, about the modeling job," she informed him, almost flippantly and carelessly.

George stood up straighter, his arms unfolding, his eyes darkening with the fog of anger. "I told you to cancel that!" he said, raising his voice. "I told you not to do it! Why did you go? You know how I feel about that!"

"Yes, I do! But I don't agree," Pattie shouted back. She was so annoyed with his behaviour, how he wanted her to sit at home, waiting for him to come back, have a meal ready for him on the table, be at his every beck and call, like some, some old-fashioned Victorian wife! No way, she hadn't ever wanted to be that, and still didn't. Even if that was how George wanted her.

"You're not doing the job, Pattie," he said, lowering his voice. "You tell them you can't do it, or I will." Cold. The words were so cold, like his eyes, now two dark stones. He looked at her. Pattie knew he meant it.

She remained quiet, holding his gaze, staring angrily back at him. The bastard! The bloody bastard! "Tell them," he warned again, before quickly turning into his music room, slamming the door shut. Pattie heard the distinct sound of key in lock. He had shut himself away from her.

She turned, and walked into their room, tears pouring from her eyes, a mixture of a rainbow of emotions, so different, and yet all about the same thing. George.

It was so difficult lately. So very hard to live with him, to handle it all. She kept wondering where it went wrong. What happened to turn what was once so beautiful and true, to an ugly, nightmarish mess? When did the dream become tarnished?

She never could pin point it. Never sure when it had happened. Maybe it was when George had fallen even deeper into religion, obsessing over it, always talking about it. Trying to be so virtuous, when Pattie knew he was just as sinful as she.

Could it all have started when she found out that Eric liked her? Loved her? Obsessed over her? When she realized that no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't love George as she once had.

No, it must have been before that. Before Eric and all the lying and cheating and endless arguments. But when?

Pattie felt so exhausted then. So tired of the whole bloody situation. It was draining her energy completely. It was all too much, and the entire thing was eating away at her. She lay down on the bed, stretching her body, getting comfortable, and noticed suddenly the heaviness of her eyelids, and what a struggle it was to keep them open.

They flickered, once, twice, and shut, her breathing relaxing itself, as she let herself start to drift away, hoping the dreams and nightmares didn't start again.

The jarring ring of the telephone next to her brought her out of her daze with a bump, and her hands scattered, searching for it in her sudden disruption. She picked it up, put it to her ear. "Hello?" she asked tiredly.

The laugh on the end, the gentle voice joking with her, whispering to her, and she felt suddenly so much lighter, so much more awake, as she settled herself for what whispered conversation she could have, before George realized.

~ * ~

George stood, in the music room, freshly locked away from her.

But he couldn't escape the memory. Ever. Nor her smell. It was in this room. In every room of the house. That sweet, feminine smell of hers, the one he used to love. He used to be able to smell her coming, not a strong, overpowering smell, a gorgeous, soft, subtle, feminine scent that she seemed to possess.

And he couldn't help but love it still.

Even in this room. Probably the room she frequented the least in their whole home. Still, he smelt it.

And he didn't want to. That scent, curling and winding into his nostrils, recognized in that deep place in his mind, where he still thought of it as her. The woman he loved. But another part of him was having a job of telling himself that he didn't want to smell her anymore, didn't need to, because he had fallen out of love with her.

What he wouldn't admit, even to his deepest self, was that that was a blatant lie. He would always love her, even just the memory, of how they were, how they had been, young, foolish children and so newly and romantically in love, and how they used to -

Dammit!

No

No

NO!

He shut his eyes, insisting he STOP thinking about it NOW! He couldn't stand it, to dwell on the past. No. Have to move on. To go with the flow, live in the present, live for the now, think for the future. Be here. Be now. No lurking, no hiding in the past.

And no regrets.

But, dammit, it was hard. So - bloody- hard.

Damn.

He would have to go on, to evolve, and just live with whatever happened.

But what would happen?

George hadn't a clue.

He moved around the table, full of scattered papers covered in  his thin, scrawled handwriting, almost illegible at points, aggravated and jumpy. He didn't even bother looking at the words.

He walked around, and stood in front of his guitars, wondering just which one he would take out. His Ricky? A Fender, maybe? Acoustic? The uke?

Eyeing the guitars, he noticed something small on the floor, next to his Rickenbacker, and bent to have a closer inspection. Fingers scrabbling quickly on the carpet, the low nails struggling to pick up the thin piece of plastic. He already knew what it was. And a feeling of dread was welling up within him. If he stopped to think about it, it would overcome and drown him.

He finally managed to pick up the tricky little bugger, and stared at it, soundlessly. The object in itself was nothing amazing. Only a guitar pick. A little black one. But the fact that it wasn't one of his guitar picks was what made him stare hard at it. In his music room.

Someone else’s guitar pick, in his music room.

That didn't add up.

It was like, putting two and two together, expecting four, but somehow, madly, landing up with three.

Three was the number here, all right. Definitely.

He felt that well of dread turn into horror, and complete disbelief. Before, he hadn't been entirely sure. Now, he could be. If he turned the pick over.

Or, he could just, leave it, put it back, chuck it away, and pretend that it was his, really.

But he knew it wasn't.

He turned the black guitar pick over slowly, so slowly, that even he could feel the strain of tension within him, loud, like a clock, ticking slower and slower.

He didn't even want to turn it over, to look at it, and see the truth. But it seemed now; his body was beyond the control of his mind. Far beyond.

The shiny, black, thin plastic surface, turned to show a white side, and he knew who it belonged to. He only knew one person who used a guitar pick like that.

And that person was the only logical owner of it. The only one who would come over, and pick up his guitars when he wasn't there.

Because George knew that he hadn't seen Eric in a while. And this guitar pick had appeared only today. Since he was in the room, the other night. He would have remembered seeing it.

The sudden force of what he had just found, the evidence, and truth of it, it George hard, right in the stomach, a painful blow, which knocked the air from within in, leaving him breathless and gasping in the wake of the situation.

Pattie was having an affair with Eric!

And Eric had only been here today!

Another thought struck George suddenly, like a bullet in his mind. Not only had he been gone for all of that day, but he had also been gone for all of last night.

It chilled him, churned his stomach, to think of Pattie and Eric together. That hurt enough.

But, to imagine them together, in their bed, his and Pattie's - Christ, in his fucking bed! - that thought really made him --

George blanched as he felt the bile rise up in his throat, felt it twist and churn and heave.

He ran to the door, unlocking it, and throwing it open, throwing himself out of it, sprinting to the toilet, where he quickly deposited the contents of his angry, tossing stomach.

Finished, he pulled the chain, heard the agreement of the flush, and sat back against the cool, tiled wall, waiting

            (hoping)

for his tossing stomach to calm itself down.

He didn't want to think of that again, not if that was the reaction it provoked.

He leant his head back, closing his eyes, trying to relax and calm himself.

It didn't much help.

Dammit.

Feeling sick, hot, flustered and restless, he decided to take a shower. That should help ease his stomach

            (maybe)

Twisting the knobs, checking the temperature, making it as hot as he could stand it, as he could bear it, peeling off his clothes, climbing in.

George felt instantly more at ease, maybe more so than he had in awhile. Except for that morning, with Susana.

Yeah. That had been good, that had been very good indeed. Just what he had seemed to need to take his mind off everything.

A good romp of --

Whoops!

It felt like someone else agreed with George as well!

Another fiddle with the knobs, and now the water was cooler.

Very good.

His mind wandered backwards to what he had been thinking and --

Dammit!

Happened again!

There was only one cure for this, he mused. And he already knew the answer.

He wondered what the time was, and if maybe it wasn't too late to go out. He could go back to that club, maybe, see if she was there again. She had been good.

She had been very good.

And, if she wasn't, well, never mind. Plenty of talent in the clubs, right?

And, after all, he was George Harrison. It wouldn't be hard for him to find another Susana, now, would it?

George turned the water off, and stepped from the shower, wrapping himself up in a thick white towel.

He'd made his plan. Now, all he had to do was do it.

~ * ~

It was fairly late when Pattie heard the sound of somone running down the hall. Then, a moment later, she heard the toilet door slam shut with force.

George.

She could hear the faint sounds of regurgitation.

Why on earth was George being sick?

She suddenly felt ill herself.

Was it something he had eaten?

Something he drank?

Had he been taking something she didn't know about?

Pattie didn't know. And that worried her.

She didn't know what her husband was up to. She didn't know where he went, who he saw, and why he went.

She didn't know him anymore.

He wasn't the George she had married. Oh no. Then, he hadn't even thought about God, and religion, and hadn't discovered Indian culture, hadn't know about it, wasn't embracing it, obsessing over it, like he was now.

Maybe it was her fault, for starting him off, going on about the greatness of Transcendental Meditation.

Or maybe George would have found it all out anyway. Some things were just…destined.

Like the breaking of their marriage.

When she had married him, she never dreamt that it would end up like this; that this was how it would turn out. She honestly never thought it would ever even end. Now that thought, that realization was dawning, and truly imminent. It made Pattie shiver to think of it.

It had been unbelievable, at first, all those years ago now, to find out that Beatle George Harrison liked her! Normal young Pattie Boyd.

And this was where it brought her.

Into a failing marriage, to a husband that she could barely recognize, let alone see as the man she married.

Sad, that.

Very sad. Married to a man, whom once she loved, and was now using his best mate - who she was in love with - to forget him.

What had happened to her and George?

What the bloody hell had happened?

A few moments later, she heard the shower start. What was George having a shower for at this time? She didn't really care. To be honest, she really couldn't be bothered anymore to care. She was tired.

Very tired.

And Eric had gone, now. She would have to wait to hear his comforting voice again, to feel his warmth, to escape the shambles her marriage had become. She wasn't going to wait for George. He would come, if he wanted. Or, he might not. Most nights, he didn't even sleep in what used to be 'their' bed; Pattie suspected that he usually fell asleep in his music room. They hadn't been intimate for months, now. And, she honestly could not find the energy to care so much as she once used to.

Pattie leant back, closed her eyes, blocking the sound of the shower, which stirred up the memories, and tried to sleep, again.

She had reached that point (again) between wakefulness and sleep, and was teetering on the edge, when a noise, grabbed her, pulling her from the brink of sleep, yanking her back sharply from the warmth and blank nothingness of sleep.

Sitting up, listening, ears perked, wondering what woke her, Pattie could hear it was George, coming from the shower, and moving around noisily in their room. She could see the darkness in the room, which gave him away. He was by the dresser, rooting around, grunting, impatient and searching. Pattie watched him in silence for a moment, the even darker darkness showing where he stood, wondering what the hell he was doing.

He sighed, seemingly not being able to find what he was looking for in the darkness, and turned on a small lamp to help him see.

Momentarily blinded, Pattie called out softly, "George?" A question mark in her voice.

George turned to look at her, eyes wide. He thought she was asleep. Seems he was wrong.

He was about to say he was going out, somewhere, but the vision of Pattie, sitting there, looking at him, so sleepy, eyes wide, blonde hair falling around her shoulders, the nightgown she had on slipping off one shoulder, awaiting an answer from George.

She was still a beautiful woman.

And George was still naked, just come from his shower. That's what he had been doing, looking for his clothes.

He didn't want, nor need, them now.

"Pattie, I…" he started, with no idea of what he was planning on following that with.

He didn't need to, though.

Pattie could see, at least

            (for once)

what was on George's mind. The physical evidence was overwhelming. And for a moment, Pattie forgot Eric, and her failing marriage, and George could think only of his desperate, urgent, need. His want.

Now.

He wouldn't have cared if it were Pattie lying in the bed there, or not. He just needed a vent.

And Pattie, so lonely, still would do anything, to try and fix their relationship, if she could.

Both of them seemed to forget that they were a married couple. Both felt like they were strangers to each other. And they both felt that primal, age old instinct.

George's dark eyes glowed in the tiny shaft of light emitted from the small table lamp.

Pattie looked up at George, her own eyes shining. Breath coming in short, anxious gasps.

It was like in the movies, when that vital moment, the one, cropped up. The choice that would change the course of everything. Not that either had any idea, nor would they have cared if they had, all they knew was the one, single, shared thing.

And, as they both looked into each others eyes, his full of the need and urge, hers full of loneliness and hurt

            (hope)

all else seemed to fizzle, fade and melt into the background, and all that both knew was the others eyes.

Names forgotten, situation not remembered, the whys and the hows, who cares?

Not they.

No, now they only cared for one thing

            (sex)

            (love)

and neither cared about that either.

Her breath caught in her throat, as she gasped upon his thin, nearly lanky, frame, eyes lingering. And he gazed back, seeing nothing but her chest, rising and falling with every breath she took. Neither had spoken in what seemed to be forever, when in truth, it had been no longer than a minute and a half. Finally, someone spoke, broke the stiff

            (strained)

silence between them. Breaking the tension in the room.

"Make love to me," she whispered, unwittingly careful to mention no name, to bring the both of them back to reality, and reality was the thing, the monster, that had driven the wedge between them in the first place, the beast that was splitting them apart, like cracking a nut, so very

            (too)

easily.

He looked. No need to think, before switching the little lamp off, and walking over to their bed. A moment, completely unsure, not knowing what to do passed, before he found himself closer, feeling her heat, hearing her heart pounding in anticipation, and the moment was gone, and he knew just what to do. Please her. Please him.

Empty himself.

Fill her.

Yes.

He knew what to do, and how to do, and was going to do it.

Right

This

Very

Minute.

And, before either realized, he was on her, long, skinny, calloused fingers, touching her everywhere, pulling the nightgown down, the sheets back, almost urgent, and desperate,

He forgot his name, who he was, and why and how he had even gotten into this situation.

Forgot about the Lord, and his promise, and all of that. Right now, none of it mattered. All of that useless information had been pushed and shoveled to the cluttered corner of his mind, the part where he forgot, and didn't care, and needn't.

No thoughts were coming to him, only actions and

            (actions speak louder than words)

he didn't care. He didn't give a flying fuck. What's more, he wasn't even thinking how little he cared about the fact that he could not remember how he had gotten here, with her, he wasn't thinking at all.

And, as hot hands held her heated skin,

            (moaning)

she too forgot her name, for the first time in her life; she could not recall her name. But, she didn't want to, nor did even a flutter of a thought go towards the

            (unknown)

fact.

It was all hands.

Physical.

No

            (communication)

lips.

No

            (memories)

talking.

Only hands. Skin on skin. Everything was all so physical.

So very physical and

            (touch)

the only feeling between the two, mindless of who they were and how they had gotten there.

            (end)

            (climax)

            (finale)

            (made)

That was it.

The job was done.

He had managed to please the both of them. Had found the vent he needed.

Emptied himself.

Filled her.

Successful.

Fulfilled.

Accomplished, job well done, pat on the back

            (and all that)

a medal for you, boy, how about a pint? high praise, high praise indeed, you are truly one of the -

Tired.

Now

So

Very

Tired.

Sleep engulfed the pair, their dreams as memory-less as the strange, as yet still

            (unknown)

encounter between them.

Sleep. Deep. Mindless, and oh-so-very welcomed.

~ * ~

Warm.

She was so warm, and full, and -

Something wasn't right. She wasn't sure

            (what had woken her?)

but she knew that something wasn't right. She felt it. She felt, well, she felt like she had had sex. And she hadn't seen Eric for a day now, hadn't slept with him for a little while.

She didn't want to open her eyes. Because, she knew what

            (who)

she would find when she did.

She could feel the sun on her face, and had to open them. Had to. And she saw him, dark eyes open wide.

"George," she breathed quietly.

~ * ~

George could feel himself starting to wake from the warmth of sleep, start to slip from the hazy, dazed places of dreams. Groaning, tired, he stretched and hand out, and felt something. Shocked,

            (electric)

he pulled his hand quickly away, keeping his eyes firmly shut, not wanting to see what he knew he would.

Now he was fully awake.

Flashes, memories of last night cursed him. Now he remembered his name, and who he was, and certainly how he had gotten there.

Another groan.

Lord, please, no.

Please no.

Please.

No.

No.

Good Lord no!

He hadn't meant to do it! Not that! But, he had been so desperate

            (like a teenager with desperate horn)

last night, and just, just hadn't

            (realized)

thought about what he was doing.

Damn, damn, DAMN!

But, whilst his eyes stayed closed, he could just drift away to that far off, unknown realm of dreams, there maybe

            (just maybe)

he could pretend like nothing mattered, like nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Like nothing had happened, at all.

Her breath, he could hear her breathing.

He wanted to cover his face with his hands and moan about what a stupid bastard he was. How could he have done that?! How?

Oh.

Stupid

Bloody

Git!

But he wanted it not to be real. For that feeling of ominous dread in his stomach to be nothing but hunger pains. A hand,

            (long, skinny)

reached out

            (calloused fingers)

gingerly to

            (touching her)

check

            (everywhere)

if it was her.

            (pulling the nightgown down)

His hand

            (long, skinny, calloused)

found her side

            (fingers)

felt the bare

            (touching her)

skin

            (everywhere)

and knew, it was her. He

            (pulling the nightgown)

knew the feeling

            (down)

of her. He

            (almost desperate)

knew her

            (desperate)

feel.

Another moan, oh, good Lord!

He could feel the warm sun light behind his closed lids, and felt the desperate

            (almost desperate)

urge to blink. To open his eyes. He had to, had to see for himself. See his mistake, the mark of his

            (desperation)

stupidity. See that it was true.

He did. And he saw the person he was hoping he wouldn't, and yet, who he knew, all along, that he would.

Pattie.

She started to stir, and his eyes widened in horror. What would he say to her? What the bloody hell would

            (could)

he say to her? Now? After last night? No time to come up with something good,

            (or run away)

because her eyes, so blue, fluttered open, to stare at him a moment.

"George," she breathed quietly. Breaking the silence, tense and strange and thick like fog, hanging over them.

He just

            (everything was all so)

stared back

            (physical)

silently, not taking it in. Her eyes imploring

            (pleading)

him to speak, say something,

            (anything)

He licked his dry lips, wanting to say something, and yet not knowing what. To George, it felt like time was going so very…so fast, the seconds could be felt, heard, ticking madly away, on the clock, in the hall of his mind.

In reality, it was only seconds.

Still, unsure of what to say, knowing it had to be something,

            (anything)

his mind stumbled upon the most simple of things, the one he knew that would bring reality crashing back down

            (hard)

upon him.

At the last moment, George didn't want to say it, but the word, such a small one, slipped from his mouth, and with it

            (so physical)

came the memories.

"Pattie," he uttered dryly.

Her eyes widened noticeably, and for the first time, both realized that they were naked. The moment felt truly surreal, for neither had been together, intimately, for, what,

            (ages)

months now, how long, neither cared to work out. All that mattered was, it was true. Husband and wife, for some years now, and they hadn't made love to each other for

            (ages)

months.

            (disgraceful)

"Pattie, I…" George started to say. Pattie could hear the regret, the confusion, and the guilt in George's voice, see it, in George's eyes, and knew,

            (she knew)

that George and she

            (all along)

would not be able to reconcile and mend their marriage with one, hazy night.

            (there would be only one)

She felt then, so sad, so very sad, and couldn't bear to look into his eyes, eyes she used to love so much, looking just as she felt. "George, please," she said, feeling awful, "don't, just - just don't." She reached, pulled her nightgown back on, and rushed from the room, trying to stop the tears from pouring from her eyes.

~ * ~

George watched as Pattie grabbed a robe, wrapped it around her, and silently left the room, much to his unexpected surprise. He rolled over onto his back, his hands falling on his face, a deep groan releasing from his chest. He rubbed his hands across his face, and wondered what the hell was going to happen now. He hadn't thought about it once last night. Then again, he'd thought of nothing but his need last night, and Pattie was the nearest to fill it

            (fill her).

To think of it now, he felt bad about it. It wasn't right, to use her like that. It wasn't right. It was selfish and deceitful. He dreaded that she had gotten her hopes up, because of this.

            (maybe she did it for the same reason)

The thought hit him, like a bullet, leaving him reeling. He lowered his hands from his face and lay, stunned, in the aftershock. Where had that thought come from? Creeping into his mind, slinking through the small back door in his mind that he'd forgotten to lock tight from outside invasion.

            (unless it was me)

Where were these strange thought coming from? He didn't want to believe that they were coming from him. Though, now the thought had been planted in his mind, his own started to grow around it. Why was he thinking that Pattie was hoping for a reconciliation of their marriage? Why wa-

Oh.

His body jerked, quick, up, the surprise shocking his tingling nerves, before numbing themselves down. The thought had hit him so suddenly, more so than the other one had. It was like being steamrolled, the force of the realization knocked the breath from him, his eyes widening, his breath coming in deep, slow, ragged in-and-exhales.

For him to be thinking like that, for having those thoughts, meant that he really did not believe he and Pattie could fix things. Did he? Was this true? The thought was too much for him; he grabbed them, and shoved them all into the deepest, darkest, shadowed, hidden corners of his mind, burying them under a heaped, heavy pile of denial.

He rolled over, hiding his head in the pillows, like an ostrich in the sand, inhaling deeply. He pulled away quickly when it registered that it was Pattie's smell he was breathing in so deeply, luxurising in, so much. The smell of her shampoo. Oooh.

            (ohhh)

Deciding he'd had enough, George leapt from the bed, still naked, and rooted around in the cupboard, picking out any shirt and pair of trousers that he came across, whether they went together or not. He pulled the clothes on quickly, and rubbed his cheek thoughtfully, wondering what to do now. He felt the scratch of stubble, and decided a shave might be a good start to the morning,

            (better than earlier).

He made his way to the bathroom, and found the door was closed, and George could hear the shower going. Pattie. Okay then, he thought to himself, I don't need to shave, I can always grow a beard.

He decided that instead of his shave, he would fix himself something to eat; he was quite hungry, come to think of it. So, George made his way to the kitchen, his mind wondering through what he fancied for breakfast.

The phone gave a shrill holler, making George turn from the refrigerator, to the phone, startled slightly. "Hello?" he asked, picking up the telephone.

The voice on the other end surprised him. "George? Hey, mate, it's Eric."

George took a breath, curious as to what to say, he hadn't spoken to Eric since he had found out. For a brief moment the thought went through his mind that he should tell Eric that he knew.

The thought sunk without trace in the depths of his current, confused thoughts. He released the breath he was unknowingly holding in, he knew he'd have to talk to Eric sooner or later. If Eric was still pretending he wasn't screwing around with Pattie behind his mate's

            (her husbands)

back, then

            (it wasn't entirely their fault)

he'd pretend he didn't know. Simple

            (agony)

right?

He spoke, his 'hello' coming out a deep-throated croak. He coughed to clear it.

"What have you been up to then?" Eric asked casually.

George gave the expected answer, asked the expected questions, and the expected conversation followed. It struck George's subconscious how easy it was to slip back into the comfortable routine, like a warm, old glove. It was natural, comfortable and expected, predictable.

Is this what he and Pattie had been doing for all this time? Slipping back into the routine? And, if he was noticing these things, then what on earth was Pattie experiencing? She had always been more aware of those things, more in tune with feelings, and thoughts, intuitive.

God, if these were his thoughts

            (but were they?)

what the hell were her thoughts?

            (his)

The conversation between the two old friends walked down the regular path, and George found that they had arranged to get together soon. He hung the telephone up, feeling very mixed up and befuddled, and turning in a daze of confusion, he found Pattie standing there. Her long, blonde hair, wet and hanging around her face, resting on her shoulders heavily. She was in her robe, tied tight and concealing around her waist,

            (to hide what happened last night)

            (to stop what happened last night)

feet bare, her skin

            (legs)

looking slick and smooth. George's mind nose dived into the rosy past, remembering what he would use to do in a situation like this, he'd

            (fuck her silly)

take her in his arms,

            (kiss her)

whisper butterfly whispers into her ear,

            (run his hands across her bre-)

softly, softly, feather fingers brush like the wind over her

            (-asts)

body, smooth, push her

            (legs)

hair back, gaze deep into those blue wells of sight, tell her how much he

            (loved her?)

            (wanted to fuck her?)

            (needed her?)

wanted her. She'd -

"George?" Head snapped up, eyes locked dizzily into her own, his cheeks burned as if his thoughts had been.

            (sinful)

wrong.

"George," she continued, "what are you doing?"

He took a breath, and releasing it, he said, "just fancied some brekkie."

She stared curiously at him. "Who was on the phone?"

Oh. He thought. She'd heard? "Eric rang," he informed her. No use in lying about it. After all, she was screwing him.

Why didn't that thought bother him more? It should have. It should have made him want to run around in circles like a headless chicken, screaming and tearing his hair out as his arms flailed about his body wildly as the thought of his wife and his friend being intimate drove him bonkers.

"That's nice," she answered casually, walking further into the kitchen, and shuffling around in a kitchen way, doing kitchen things.

George was still rooted in his spot, wondering why it wasn't driving him bonkers and stark raving ape shit.

"What do you want for breakfast?" Pattie asked him, making George's mind tick over to the regular.

How odd, he thought, that people could adapt so quickly to even the strangest of situations, and live on.

He turned around, his mind thinking of what they had for him to eat. And it didn't strike him for a while how strangely normal it was, sitting at the table, having breakfast with Pattie, just chatting. Like the conversation earlier with Eric, how comfortable and expected, to slip back into normal, routine life. The way this was all going, he felt that if he didn't lose his mind now, then he would at a later stage, thinking all of this over and ending up doing the whole, mad, headless chicken thing in a garden somewhere, and maybe they'd put him in an institution.

"EX-BEATLE GOES MAD IN GARDEN"

Or something equally ridiculous.

"Did Eric want anything in particular?" Pattie asked.

George shook his head, and swallowed his mouthful of food. "Just a chat," he said. "He's probably coming round one day soon."

Pattie didn't look in the slightest surprised, it always happened, and George couldn't help but scan her face, looking for any telltale signals, maybe her eyes glittered at the mention of his name, or her lips curled in a small smile at the thought.

George found half of himself disappointed when she was the same as she always was. Not a sign of her and Eric. He wouldn't have found out, if he hadn't overheard.

Yet, a part of him felt relief. It meant he wouldn't have to confront her with his knowledge of the truth of the situation. He didn't want to tell her he knew. To be honest, after all the weirdness lately, he couldn't be bothered. He felt relief at both of their ability to slip back into the norm, seamlessly and wordlessly, no having to face the facts.

            (I don't want my life to be a lie)

The thought was only an echo in his mind, and he barely heard it, tuning it out, and storing it, for later thought.

~ * ~

Pattie hadn't even brought up the episode the other night. No, no. Neither of them had the courage to bring it up. What could they say? Let's not do that again? Yeah. All right, and why not? Because we are married. Hmm. That didn’t add up.

Damn it. She felt so helpless as to what was happening to their marriage. She wanted to fix it, but knew she couldn't. She didn't want to give up, yet she didn't want to stay in this circle of lies. She wanted to get out of it. Break free. She didn't care if Eric was with her, or if she were alone, just being out would be a relief.

But then, she didn't want to leave it as it was, either Damn it. Damn it all to bloody hell, or whatever.

She sighed, giving up, and swapping the kitchen for the hallway, wondering where George was, slipping back into the comfortable old slippers of the past, and wondering what he might fancy for lunch. She thought he was probably in his music room, and went to check. She got there and found the door closed, as usual. She knocked to let him know she was coming in, and twisted the doorknob, and -

Locked! It was locked! He never locked it! What the hell was going on? "George?" she called out. "George, why have you locked the door?" She listened, heard shuffling, a soft thump, a sigh, and then his voice.

"What do you want, Pattie?" he called back. Wasn't he going to open it?

"Why have you locked the door?" she repeated her question, her mind stuck on the oddness of it, like the needle in a broken record, playing the question over and over. Why had he locked the door?

She heard as George let out a sigh, the hard thumps of his footsteps, and the click of the key, twist of the knob. Pattie quickly let her hand drop from it, and waited. George's face filled the small space he had opened, and frowned at her, not so much an annoyed frown, more like a tired, can't-be-bothered/thoughtful frown.

She looked up at him, repeating her question. "Why did you lock the door?"

"To get some peace, Pattie." Simple. Few words. He was trying to get rid of her.

That wasn't the answer she wanted. She wanted an answer that would explain it. Though, really, it probably did explain it. Explain it all. "Are you writing?" she ventured to ask, her eyes peeking around his face to see inside what of the room she could. Guitars, a few, the acoustic rested where he had obviously put it only a moment ago. Papers scattered about, and her eyes could catch the corner of an overflowing ashtray.

His sharp voice brought her back, her eyes glanced up into his, and the look inside was obviously telling her he wanted his privacy. He'd rather not have her look around. "Is there something you wanted?"

She struggled to find an excuse, too shocked by the whole situation, the look in his eyes. God, it was like-

"Pattie?" he asked. His voice didn't hold any of the concern it once used to. What had happened? What had happened?

She blinked, bringing herself back from wherever her mind had taken her, tried to smile, failed miserably, as she backed away from George and his precious room. "No, it's nothing."

He nodded. "Right, then." The door filled the space his face had only moments before, the final click of the key signalled that he had locked her from himself again. She heard as he started to pick out tunes on his acoustic, felt herself lean against the wall, but was not aware of anything else apart from his playing. The long fingers skilfully picking out little twists of melodies, hints of something beautiful. And, a slight hum coming from him, no words. Just his gentle humming.

Her eyes stung with the prick of unknown tears, as her mind wandered through memories. How he would play for her, play such beautiful songs, sing the most beautiful of words, gaze with such beautiful love into her face. Now, he was shut, locked away behind his door, hidden and secret, distancing himself from her.

She knew then. Something inside of her told her that George knew.

~ * ~

“You all right, mate?”

George nodded. “Yeah, fine, you?”

Eric nodded his own head, smiling, “’bout the same. What you been up to?” The two old friends made their way through the house, talking about nothing in particular, nothing important. They found themselves in the music room, as usual. Usual. What a word, George thought. This whole thing, the usual situation. Like it always had been. Like it always was. Here he was, talking away, just like usual, with the man who was screwing around with his wife. It bothered him that he didn’t care as much as he should have. But to think that would really drive him mad. He knew it would. So he settled for remembering the past, taking a nice comfy seat in it, whilst he and Eric caught up, played, chatted, laughed, and did the usual.

~ * ~

In the kitchen. There, she was in her place, it seemed. Cooking a meal for the two men she loved. One had become almost like a brother at this point, the state of their relationship. Relationship?

The other, a man she loved passionately, in a relationship that was exciting

            (wrong).

The best friend of her husband. She loved them both, in such different ways. It was just, so mind bending. Really. But she didn’t think about it. She didn’t want to burn the food.

~*~

Eric couldn’t help wondering if George knew. Pattie thought he did. Pattie insisted she knew that George did. Eric wasn’t sure if she was just being paranoid, or, or what? She had gotten over the paranoia of having an affair with her husband’s friend quite some time ago. It was nearing the stage where they both just wanted to tell George. Have out with it, and get it over with. But they couldn’t. Even if they weren’t paranoid, they still felt guilty. Would feel bad, to do something like that, to him. But, ah, dammit. Eric had seen how George was around Pattie. Had seen how they interacted. Hell, ‘interact’ was too strong a word. Lived, might be better. How they lived. He couldn’t even say ‘lived together’ because it didn’t really count, did it? Not anymore, anyway.

Eric had felt pity for Pattie, at first. Well, pity after fancying the hell out of her. He was so jealous of George. Of his friend. So jealous, because Eric had known he would never have a woman as beautiful as Pattie by his side.

Well, ha ha, George Harrison, I’ve done better than a beautiful woman, I’ve got your beautiful woman!

Eric was thinking about it all, when he heard her voice, smelt her scent, felt her coming, calling them. “Dinner’s ready,” she told them.

“Thanks,” George said. He stood up, Eric following behind. He had to bite his tongue to stop himself from saying to Pattie, ‘You didn’t have to.’ He never would have said that before. Why now? He just gave her a smile, as they all went into the dining room. Remembering how, when it first started, they wouldn’t dare do anything that would suggest to George they were having an affair. Now? Well, they were still somewhat careful. But George seemed so wrapped up in God and Religion and Himself that he wouldn’t have noticed a blind bit anyway! That was what made Eric angry. The fact that George had a sweet, beautiful, wonderful woman as his wife, and he just took that all for granted! He didn’t spend time with her, barely spoke to her, hell, he wasn’t even a proper husband anymore!

They all sat down around the table, Pattie serving the food, being the proper hostess, before sitting down herself, and they started to eat. And there was some conversation, as always, between bites of the food. But Eric wasn’t in an overly talkative mood. He was too busy thinking. Observing.

God, he just wished that he could take Pattie away, have her as his own, properly, and tell George, tell him good, ‘see what happens you bastard? See what happens when you neglect your wife? She finds someone better! She finds someone who will love her and be the person you aren’t! And who did she find? She fuckin’ found me! ME! So take that you religious bastard!’

Not that he minded George being religious. It didn’t affect him.

            (liar)

So, maybe it did. It affected Pattie, and so it did him. He didn’t mind if George believed in God, or Krishna, or Jesus, or the bloody Man in the Moon, to be honest. It was up to George. Eric was just mad. Angry at the bastard, for treating Pattie that way. He couldn’t dream of being like that to her. He was so in love

            (insane)

over her, he just wanted to make her happy. But, she wanted to end this thing with George. She wanted to finish it, so she could be with him, properly. But Eric knew she was scared. She was scared to leave George. They had been married for some years now. It wasn’t all that surprising, was it?

“How’s your food, Eric?” her sweet voice asked.

Eric looked up, into that face, that beautiful face. Those eyes, glowing, shining with love. Love for him.

“Absolutely the best, Pattie.”

~ * ~

How wrong was it all going? How wrong? And Pattie couldn't shake the heavy blanket of guilt that covered and smothered her. She knew it wasn't all her. Sure, takes two to tango, right? George was hardly blameless. But, oh, she'd not helped it had she? No, looking back, she'd worsened it. She knew she had. How on earth had they gotten to where they were? No matter how many different thoughts, different guilts that she went over, her mind kept wondering back to that. How? How? How? The word echoed in her empty mind. She was so very shocked. So very shocked and upset, and locked, away, here, in the room. Where was George? His precious music room, no doubt. Also locked away. Just the two, the married couple, living in the house, and they had to lock the doors. Sick. Sad. Heartbreaking. Pathetic.

She sat on the edge of the bed, perched precariously on the corner, the horror of the evening running through her mind. She wanted to shut her eyes to stop the memories playing back, but it made the screen of her mind all the more clearer for viewing.

Keeping her eyes open, to blur the memories, if she couldn't stop them, at least, helped. Open wide, and blue, staring into nothingness on the outside, whilst on the inside they were watching the whole evening unfold again.

She knew that George knew. She knew. Maybe George knew that she knew that he knew. Maybe that was too complicated a sentence for her mind to tumble through. It didn't matter. It didn't help anything.

A normal evening at Richard and Maureen's. Like they used to do. The marrieds gathering for a nice meal, a friendly evening together. She had always liked them. Maureen to talk to, the children to play with and wish that she could have herself. The closeness of the four, still. George and Richard, laughing. Sometimes, George would even get a guitar out. That would be fun, George and Richard dueting on something, Richard banging on the nearest sofa arm, or his legs, as rhythm, their voices mixing strangely together. Funny. Enjoyable. Good times.

Pattie felt herself numb inside. Not tonight.

George had been in a bit of a funny mood that night. Funny odd. Not funny ha ha. Strange, thoughtful, she could tell, even if he covered it mostly well. The evening started out well, as normal. The lovely meal Maureen had cooked. The funny stories swapped across the table. The relaxed afterwards, she and Maureen having good old girly gossips. It was all fun. All like normal. Until George got out a guitar. That's when it all went wrong. When George brought the guitar out. Oh, now she wished that they hadn't accepted Richard and Maureen's invitation. Had made some excuse, anything.

But it was all done now, wasn't it?

The moment played back hideously through her mind, over and over and over, again and again and again, over and over . . .

He stopped playing the love song. Silence enveloped and drowned the room. All eyes fell on George, as he gazed up at Maureen. I'm in love with you, Maureen. Did he really say that? Did he really say THAT?! Maureen was shocked, visibly upset. Richard's anger was red hot, mixed with the total surprise and horror of George's words. How dare he? How DARE he?! Embarrassed, devastated, horrified, shocked, hurt, disgusted and so many more emotions ran through Pattie as the tears fell. She ran to the bathroom, locking herself inside. Feeling her stomach churn with the whole event. Oh God. Oh God. Oh God. Oh God. Richard was bawling at George. Screaming, yelling, shouting. She had never heard him so angry. Never. It made her shake. Oh God. Poor Richard! Why did George have to do that? Why? Feeling the wave of nausea pass over, Pattie looked into the mirror, not at all surprised by the tear tracks, the blotches of mascara. The sudden silence invaded the house, making her shiver. Richard must have gone. Must have disappeared somewhere else. Oh God. The car was silent, as they drove back. Neither dared to bring the subject up. Pattie wanted to bawl at him as well, scream and shriek at her husband for doing that. But she knew, George wouldn't really care. He wouldn't really care. Wouldn't really care. Wouldn't re-

Pattie didn't realize as her numb body fell softly backwards onto the bed, as she slipped off into a light sleep, her minds way of escaping from the horrors of that night.

~ * ~

Thoughts trickled through George’s mind, like the water in a weak, newborn stream, as he sat uncomfortably. It was not his sitting that was uncomfortable, it was the chair. But the thoughts he was thinking did not deserve to be thought of in a comfortable chair. Indeed no.

He supposed

            (knew)

he deserved, rightly so, to sit in this thoroughly uncomfortable chair.

            (why would he even own an uncomfortable chair, he wondered trivially. It’s not as if-)

His thoughts on the uncomfortable chair were broken when he realized it was of no importance or significance and promptly ordered himself to stop thinking of it at once.

            (I mean you’d have thought I was able to afford a-)

Stop! He mentally scolded himself over his worry about this now ridiculous material possession.

            (after all, the chair isn’t the problem here. I am)

And it was true. So true.

Of course, he wasn’t the only problem. No. Part of the problem. But it wasn’t such a problem anymore, was it?

            (thanks to you. Thanks to you for-)

He cut off the sneering, gloating voices in his mind

            (not a good sign, that, is it George? No n-)

or at least, he tried to. It was another part of him within, speaking up. His conscience? Perhaps. Perhaps no.

He could feel as his memory whirred backwards, like somebody had hit ‘rewind’ on a tape player. He felt the ‘play’ button press down and watched, half in silent horror, half in silent nothingness, that night replay in his mind. The night, he believed where the small pebbles rolled down the hill, dislodging the boulders, allowing them to rumble and tumble, crash and bash their way towards the very bottom. The first domino, pushed, making all the others after it drop right over, knocking the rest and-

            (bastard)

His head snapped up at the thought that swam through his mind. Yes. It was true. He was a bastard. A big, bold bastard. The replay of the night on the cinema screen of his mind only went to prove it. And he watched it like a movie, but he had the advantage

            (advantage? That’s what you call it? I’d call it a-)

of knowing what was going through the protagonists mind.

            (as if you knew. As if you could even compre-)

George saw himself, there in Richard’s home. His lovely home.

            (his lovely wi-)

The lovely meal. It was nice, to still be friends with Richard, even after all of the, well, what did you call it? No matter. He knew. And it was nice. Lovely. Almost.

He watched in horror as that moment, the one that seemed to have upset so many people happened. He watched, from within himself, as it all happened over. He could feel his fingers pluck the strings of the guitar in the delicate love song he was playing. See clearly the beautiful face, seated next to Richard.

            (your friend. Your mate. Your-)

Could feel the vibrations in his throat, as he spoke, hear, as his fingers stopped playing the strings, as he spoke the words that shattered it all.

I’m in love with you, Maureen.

He couldn’t help it. Couldn’t resist. The face. So beautiful. So open and so…

            (so your best friends wife!)

He didn’t even recall his own beautiful, distant wife. Only saw her. And the words flew out as he thought them, yet they felt un-thought until spoken.

He watched, painfully, the reactions of all around him. Richard was so angry. So loud. So unlike himself. And he could see Pattie’s upset clearly, burning, imprinted in his mind. And her.

George sighed, pushing the ‘stop’ button on his memory, not wanting to witness anymore of it.

If anyone had been watching him they would have seen a man sitting stiff, straight and upright on an uncomfortable looking chair, staring blankly at the not-so-interesting wall in front of him, his eyes almost blank pools of brown.

But no one was watching him.

No one could see.

He was alone now. He’d done it. He’d succeeded in driving his wife away.