I stood in the bathroom brushing out my waist-length strawberry blonde hair, gazing at my reflection thoughtfully. I didn't have a perfect face--most of the ads I'd done for makeup companies only showed my eyes. My lips weren't full enough and my nose was --what was that word they used-- "irregular". But I was pretty enough, and at 5' 11", I was certainly tall enough. My breasts were a little too big, but I supposed that was better than too small, and my rear end was a little flat. When I modeled jeans, I needed to wear fanny pads. Still in all, I thought, checking my reflection one last time, I wasn't too hard on the eyes. I thought I'd have an adventure tonight; I was going to a bar to have my very first legal drink. There was one right around the corner and I supposed that was as good a place as any. I thought a sweater would be warm enough--it was L.A., but it was February, and there was a slight chill in the night air--so I pulled one around my shoulders and went out into the street. The bar was virtually deserted when I arrived; there were four guys and two girls sitting at a table near the door and two men at the bar with a few stools separating them, so they were not together.

I chose a seat at the bar and ordered a Pink Squirrel. My mother drank them when we went out to fancy restaurants and I thought they were pretty and would probably taste like strawberries. While I waited for my drink, I looked around at the other people at the bar. One was an old guy, nondescript, but the other one--my God, if he didn't look like-- but no, it couldn't be. He was thousands of miles away and married to a woman with whom he seemed to be joined at the hip; he wouldn't be here, or alone.

The bartender approached the man and asked if he wanted another drink. "Yeah, sure, why not," he replied, and my blood seemed to freeze. There was no mistaking that voice. I was sitting at a bar ten feet away from John Lennon.

He hadn't appeared to notice me. In fact, he had only raised his eyes once, when the bartender spoke to him. Now he was looking down into his empty glass. My mind was going a million miles a minute. I had grown up with the Beatles; I was eleven when they came to conquer America, and I had loved them from the start. I didn't really have a favorite Beatle at first. I thought they were all cute and nice and talented, but then when I was thirteen that whole "more popular than Jesus" episode exploded into the papers and my mother was waiting for me when I came home with the paper in her hand.

She flapped the paper under my nose.

"Read this," she commanded, "Then tell me what you think about that bunch, especially that--" she seemed to struggle with finding the right word, finally spitting out, "That vile John Lennon person!"

I read the article with a mixture of horror and amusement. I agreed with his comments, but realized what terrible repercussions such a statement was bound to generate. It seemed to me that the remark was probably made off-hand and had been taken out of context. Surely he couldn't be foolish enough to just blurt out something like that... I was snapped out of my reverie by my mother's voice demanding that I tell her again what I thought about it.

"Well," I said slowly, "I think he should have thought more before saying this, and maybe he should have worded it differently, but I have to agree with what he said. It is true."

Mom sailed away in a huff after knocking me flat with her backhand, and suddenly I knew who my favorite Beatle was. The one whom, in my mother's words, was the antichrist himself.

Now here I was sitting a few yards away from him. But how to get his attention? I couldn't just walk over to him. Or could I? No. I couldn't. But I could make him look my way, and then... I pushed a bowl of nuts off the bar and it landed on the wooden floor with a crash. Every pair of eyes in the place turned in my direction, and I looked into his directly. "Hello, John," I said quietly, and I turned my attention to my drink and took a sip. It was good, but not like strawberry, more like--I was trying to figure out what the flavor was, and I felt someone slide into the seat next to me. Kind of like almonds, I thought, feeling a little panicky. I didn't have to look up to see who was sitting beside me. I could see the sleeve of the leather jacket he wore and I could smell his cigarette.

He said at last, "All by yourself?"

I nodded and managed to look at him. He smiled gently.

"You obviously know who I am," he remarked, taking a drag off his cigarette, "But who might you be?"

His light brown eyes were sparkling with amusement.

"My name is Angel," I said in a near whisper.

"Ah, that's pretty," he replied, sipping his drink, "And so are you. You know--"

He was cut off by the banging of the door hitting the wall behind us. An obviously drunken man was standing a little to the left of us, fiddling with his zipper. John's eyes lit up at the prospect of the entertainment that seemed to be beginning, and he nudged me in the ribs with his elbow. "Look," he whispered, "That guy is gonna--"

The bartender yelled at the guy, "Hey buddy, the john's that way!" with a wave of his hand in the appropriate direction. John's face fell when the fun was cut short.

"Jesus, I wish they wouldn't call it that," he muttered, his face clouding. "Of all the bloody names in the world..." he looked at the bartender. "Hey," he went on, "Yer name's not Lou, by any chance, is it?"

The bartender looked at him quizzically. "No," he said, "It's Danny. Why?"

John looked at him levelly.

"Because," he replied dryly, "That's what we call it."

He seemed about to say more, but instead he finished his drink and turned his attention back to me.

"So what do you say, Angel baby?" he said lightly, "Wanna go someplace else?"

"You mean like, somewhere more private?" I asked, beginning to panic again.

"That'd do," he said, standing up and stretching, "Where do you live? Or is there someone else there?"

"No, I live alone, and it's right around the corner." There. Now I'd done it. I was taking a strange man back to my house with every intention of doing something I'd sworn I was waiting for marriage to do. And a married man to boot. We stepped out into the night and John lit a cigarette. He took my hand and leaned against me slightly; I figured he was a little more drunk than I'd thought.

"Wow, yer tall," he said matter-of-factly.

I flushed and then I caught a glimpse of us in a shop window.

This is really happening, I thought a little hysterically.

I could smell the liquor on his breath and the smoke from his cigarette. I could hear the squeak of the leather when he raised his arm to take a drag and I could feel the intense warmth of his hand in mine and the pressure of his shoulder when he leaned closer.

All too quickly we were at my door and I fished out my key and tried to slip it into the lock, but my hand was shaking uncontrollably. He gently covered my hand with his and his lips brushed my ear through my hair as he whispered, "Relax, it's all right," or something like that. I felt the hair on my arms and the nape of my neck lift and I broke out in gooseflesh from his breath in my ear. He unlocked the door and opened it, and then we were in my kitchen. As soon as the door was closed behind us, he took me quickly into his arms and kissed me hard. My head was swimming with sensory overload; his tongue was exploring my mouth insistently, hungrily, and for the first time I knew exactly what the word horny really meant. He drew his head back a bit and looked into my eyes, smiling at me encouragingly. "Wow," he said, "Yer an armful, Angel baby. Man knows he's got hold of somethin' here!"

I switched on the light and covered my embarrassment with mock annoyance. "Is that your way of saying I'm huge?" I asked, trying to recover from his kiss. My legs felt like rubber and I sat at the table. He sat beside me and looked at me with concern.

"No. Oh, Jesus, no--I just meant--" he saw my smile and laughed out loud, his eyes shining with amusement. "Let's just say yer statuesque," he said, "And let that be the end of it."

There was a moment of silence, then he spoke again.

"So what was a pretty girl like you doin' in a seedy bar all by yourself?" he asked, lighting another cigarette. He offered me one and I shook my head and slid an ashtray toward him.

"Was it seedy? I'd never been in one before." I was feeling a little shy now.

"Really. Well, what was the occasion, then?" he asked, reaching for my hand again. I felt electricity prickling where he touched me.

"It's my birthday," I replied.

He raised his eyebrows in surprise.

"Really. Tonight?" He withdrew his hand and cupped his chin, eyeing me curiously. "How old?"

"Twenty-one," I announced proudly.

We talked for a while, and eventually the subject came to his feelings for his live-in girlfriend. He felt guilty because he was treating her badly even though she was very good to him and he honestly did love her.

"She's good, she's nice, and I feel like a bastard sometimes because I know she deserves more," he said miserably, "But I just can't help it, it's absolutely out of my control. And then we end up fighting and I end up in a place like that one down the street. I stay away for a while and then I go back and it's alright for a while. But it's a matter of time; I always know it's gonna happen again. It's just so--" he spread his hands helplessly, searching for the word he wanted.

"Inevitable," he finally finished. He sighed and looked at me. I must have looked miserable too, because he took my hand and said kindly, "But look. I'm bringin' you down on your birthday and that just won't do. Whaddaya say we celebrate, hmmmm?"

He grinned wickedly, suddenly seeming to forget his prior misery.

He pulled me down onto his lap and kissed me again. I could taste the salt of his tears and I suddenly wanted nothing more than to make him forget his pain for at least a little while. I got up and took him by the hand. "C'mon," I said gently, "I think we'll be more comfortable in the other room."

The next few minutes were a mix of terror and joy juxtaposed oddly, and some of the details escape me. What I remember most is the intensity of his face. There was a streetlight just outside the window, and he pushed me down on the bed so that I was lying across it. He yanked my panties and his zipper down, pulled my sweater up, and before I could warn him that it was my first time he was inside me and I was surprised at how sharp and bright and brief the pain was. I looked up at his face and he seemed to be staring at something only he could see, like he was not really looking at anything but was locked inside himself.

Looking back on it he reminded me of a marathon runner who is within yards of the finish line. The street is lined with people yelling and screaming but all he sees is that piece of tape stretched across the finish line. Before I could decide whether I was enjoying this, it was over. He groaned and shuddered, then he lay full upon me, breathing hard. I wondered if that was all there was to it, and he raised himself on his elbows and smiled down, seeming to become aware of me for the first time since we'd come into the bedroom.

"Thanks," he said, sounding perfectly happy, "I needed that." --or something equally romantic.

I wasn't sure what I should say or do. It seemed that there should be...more, somehow.

"It wasn't like I thought it was supposed to be," I said at last.

He looked at me quizzically.

"What a curious thing to say," he said, "It's usually done about like that."

"Well, I didn't know. I've never done this before," I told him, and he looked at me with a mixture of shock and horror.

"Oh, Jesus, I'm sorry!" he cried, looking really concerned, "Why didn't you tell me? Ah, girl, I would've been slower, more gentle, God, I'm really sorry! Why didn't you tell me?" he said again.

"I was going to, but there didn't seem to be time. Anyway, it's OK, it didn't hurt anywhere near as much as I expected and now that I think about it, it was kind of nice," I answered, smiling at his concerned face. I kissed his cheek and he shook his head.

"Well," he said finally with a slow smile, "I guess I'll just have to show you how it's done proper. This time for you. Wanna try again?"

I nodded and reached for him. He kicked off his sneakers and pants and slid my skirt off easily. He went to pull my sweater off and I pulled back and said, "You first."

He shrugged and yanked his t-shirt over his head. He was beautiful; I had never seen a naked man before and he seemed strange and alien, yet like I said, beautiful. I let him take my sweater off and unhooked my bra for him. He told me I was 'Fuckin' gorgeous' and asked me if I was ready.

This time was much different; he was tender and attentive, focused on me the whole time. I expected pain when he entered me again but this time there was none, and in a few moments pain was the furthest thing from my mind. He moved gently, easily, whispering things I couldn't quite make out because my breathing seemed too loud in the tiny room and I was reaching for--what?--I didn't know, only that it seemed so important...then it was there, it was washing through me, a feeling like none I had ever imagined before. So this is what it's all about, I thought dizzily, and he shouted that he was coming, and I think I cried out and I arched against him--then we collapsed together, breathing like freight trains, and his hair was damp against my cheek.

I found myself crying without knowing why. I was just overwhelmed, I guess. I whispered his name and was answered by a soft snore. He was asleep. His weight seemed comforting on me, and not oppressive. His breath was sighing out against my neck and tears were running into my ears but I didn't dare wipe them away because I was afraid that if I moved he would awaken and leave, and this night would be over; I never wanted this night to end.

At last I drifted off and then snapped awake again when he rolled off me and got up. He groped his way into the bathroom and I could hear him in there.

He came back and lay down beside me again. I really wanted to use the bathroom too but didn't want him to leave. I kissed his arm, which was lying across his eyes. He moved his arm and blinked sleepily at me.

"I'll be right back," I whispered, "Don't go anywhere."

He smiled lazily.

"Wouldn't dream of it," he assured me.

When I came back he rolled against me and played idly with my hair for a moment.

"When you were comin' back you looked like Lady Godiva," he said softly. "Yer hair is fuckin' beautiful."

"So're you," I told him.

He snorted and put his mouth on mine , kissing me deeply and thoroughly. It seemed like a long time before he stopped and my head was spinning dangerously again. I thought that it was a real good thing I wasn't standing up, or I'd have fallen down.

He smiled at me and it was like the sun coming out.

"How about another?" he asked, looking very innocent.

I nodded and let's just say he taught me lots of stuff during the rest of that night.

I don't know exactly when it was that we fell asleep, but we were tangled together like kittens and the sun was coming up.

When I woke up again, I untangled myself gently and went to the bathroom. My hair looked a mess and I brushed it out and washed my face. I looked at myself curiously. I still looked the same, but I sure felt different. I looked out into the bedroom and smiled at the sight of him sleeping there. His hair was tousled and he needed a shave. His lips were slightly parted and his face looked very young and innocent.

He stirred and murmured something that sounded like, "cold". I crossed the room and got a quilt to spread over his naked body. What a sin it seemed to cover him, he looked so--but he relaxed and the corners of his mouth twitched in a brief sleeping smile. My heart swelled with emotion and I slipped into bed beside him. He snuggled closer and mumbled something that sounded like, "nice." I watched him sleep for most of an hour, then he stirred and became aware of the sun on his face.

"Fuckin' hell!" he cried hoarsely, pulling the blanket up over his face, "Too bright! Shut that bloody light down!"

I jumped up and closed the shades, and he peeked back out. I was laughing so hard I was almost crying at the thought of him recoiling from the light in such abject horror.

"What are you, a vampire?" I finally managed to choke.

He smoothed the quilt back and looked at me, bleary-eyed, tousled, and a bit indignant.

"Why don'tcher come over here and find out?" he growled, and I found myself wanting him desperately.

How the hell does he do that? I asked myself in wonder, How the hell can I want him so badly when we just spent the whole night--

I didn't get any further because the whole thing was happening again. Afterwards he remarked that he could do with something to eat and I went to make coffee and warm him a muffin. When I brought it to him he was sitting up and smoking. There was a thoughtful look on his face and he ate and drank in silence. When he'd finished he said thank you, it was really good, and I told him I'd made the muffins myself.

"Is there nothing you can't do?" he asked in an amused voice.

"Well, I can't stand how dirty I feel right now; I'm all sweated up," I said, trying to sound casual. "How would you like to take a shower?"

His eyes widened in surprise.

"My, how brazen you've become in just one night, me shy young virgin!"

He beat me to the bathroom.  I found out that it's a tight fit, but it can be done in the shower.

Afterwards, John got dressed and said that he really had to go; he had to work that evening and needed some time to get ready. It was warm in the afternoon sun, so when his car arrived he slung his jacket over his shoulder and bounced down the stairs and out into the street. I watched from the kitchen window and he looked up, saw me, and gave a cheerful wave and a smile. Then he was in the car and it was maneuvering down the crowded street.

"Well," I told myself out loud, "That, as they say, is that. But it was fun..." I figured I would never see him again and when I thought of that I could do nothing but run to my bedroom, bury my face in the pillow he'd slept on, and cry as though my heart would break.

By the time I was able to get myself under control, it was dark outside. I got undressed and went to bed, feeling lost and more alone than I'd ever felt in my life.

***

The next few days went by in a haze. I knew I had to forget about John but was constantly reminded of him. I heard him singing on the intercom at the market, I saw his picture in the window of a record shop, and he was always, always in my dreams when I was asleep. There seemed to be no escaping his voice, his image, or his memory.

I was washing dishes in the kitchen on the fourth day, and it occurred to me that I was holding the cup he'd had his morning coffee in. I touched my lips to the rim and then almost dropped the cup in the sink when there was a loud and sudden knock on the door.

"Hey, anybody home? Lady Godiva! Are you there?" shouted an all-too familiar voice. My heart in my throat, I ran to open the door to him.

He stepped into the room and I threw myself into his arms. He seemed surprised by the power of my onslaught and caught me close to him. Burying his face in my hair against my ear, he murmured reassuringly.

"Sssh, there, it's alright," he whispered, "What is it? Has something happened? Don't cry, it's gonna be OK, I promise."

"I never thought I'd see you again," I choked out between sobs. "I thought you were never coming back, and I missed you so much! I can't explain it, I hardly know you, but you're so important to me, and I thought--"

"Hush, girl, you know what Thought did," he said gently, and I had to laugh.

My grandmother was always saying the same thing, and I told him so.

"Was she? Well, then I'm in good company," he said, brushing my tears away with the backs of his long, graceful fingers.

"Now," he continued, "Let's say hello in a little more happy way, shall we?"

I turned my head to let him kiss me, and his hands moved slowly over me, setting my skin on fire. After a while, we went without a word to the bedroom, but instead of attacking me as he had the first time, he sat down and pulled me down beside him. I laid my head on his shoulder and he played with my hair. He seemed content to just be there for the time being, and we didn't talk for a few moments. At length, John pulled away slightly and caught my chin in his fingers, turning my face towards him.

His face was a study in sweet concern.

"I don't want to hurt you," he said finally, "You've gotta know that."

"I do, I know. It's not anything you did. It's just that it seems like I've known you for such a long time. And then you were gone so fast, and when I thought you'd never come back--but then you did and everything's so much better now. But don't worry. I don't expect you to fall in love with me or to replace--the one you really do love." I couldn't quite bring myself to say her name.

I took a deep breath and added, "I know I can never be more than your friend, but I do want to be that. I want you to come to me when everything seems wrong and maybe together we can make sense of it. I just want--" I floundered, searching for the right words. "I just want to be there for you when you need someone," I finished, and his eyes seemed to shine from within. He sighed with relief and hugged me close.

"If that's what you want," he said gently, "Then you've got the job."

We made love, then I got up and made him dinner while he amused himself channel surfing. "I LOVE American TV," he announced, coming up behind me. He put his arms around my waist and rested his head on my shoulder. "So many programs; there's almost always something good on. Mmmm, somethin' smells good in here, whatcha makin' for me?"

"Trouble," I replied, patting his cheek gently. "And steak and eggs. Want toast with that?"

"Of course. Did you bake the bread and churn the butter?" He asked, sitting at the table.

"No, but I do have some homemade strawberry jam, and you can have all you want," I told him, popping the bread into the toaster and sliding down the lever. I dished up his food and buttered the toast, placing the open jar of jam in front of him. He smiled like a child.

"You really made this?" he said happily.

"Yes, I do it every year," I replied, "I braid rugs and make patchwork quilts too. What do you think I do with all my free time, cruise the bars looking for handsome men?"

"Well, if I was a woman that's what I'd do," he declared, his mouth full. "But do you really? Do all that stuff, I mean?"

"Yup. All the time. It relaxes me."

"Yer a regular old farm wife, ain’tcha?" he teased, trying his best at a countrified American accent and falling far short of the mark.

"Yes, I am, and you’d better finish up quickly so that we can get to our dessert before my farm husband comes home.”

He finished in record time and scooped me into his arms.

“Yeeha,” he said softly, and there was no more talking for a long while after that.

Later I was lying awake, watching him sleep. He looked fragile and ethereal in the light streaming in through the thin curtains. I figured I could sleep tomorrow after he left. I had no work for the next few days and I just wanted to fill my soul with the sight of him while I could. With a weird mixture of horror and joy, I realized that I had fallen in love with this man who was another woman’s husband. He lived for the day she would call him and tell him it was over, that he could come home and end his exile, as he called it.

I was well aware that once this finally happened, he would leave L.A. and me behind, leave the girl too who was doubtlessly crying tonight wondering where he was, and never look back. I just tried not to think about what would happen in the future and hold every moment I had like a treasure. This is how my life continued for the remainder of his exile. But the time was drawing to a close and soon he would be gone and I would be alone again with nothing but a memory.

***

Finally the day came. John bounded into the kitchen and grabbed me, hugging me close. His eyes were shining as brightly as the sunniest day that ever was.

"Try and guess, Lady G," he chortled, "Guess what happened--you'll never guess, I'll tell you! I'm goin' home! This whole thing is over and I'm goin' home! TODAY!!"

I was stunned. I wanted to share in his joy but there it was, the end. This would be the last time we would be together. He was so overjoyed that he seemed unaware that my heart was breaking. I tried to put on a brave face; there would be plenty of time, an eternity of time, for tears later. "That's great!" I said, forcing my mouth to smile, "I know how badly you've wanted this." I kissed him quickly. "I really am happy for you, John," I said, trying hard to mean it.

He grinned like a kid just out of school for the summer and drew me close. "I came to say goodbye," he said into my hair, "And to tell you to call me if you ever need anything. I mean that--anything! This is my number in New York." He pressed a scrap of paper into my hand and kissed me again. As I accepted the slip of paper I knew that I would never call that number. Better to let his past be his past.

He whispered against my ear, "You've been great, I really appreciate--well, everything."

"Do you have to go right away?" I asked, fearing his reply.

To my relief, he shook his head. "No, I've a couple hours before I need to get to the airport." He was still grinning like his face would split.

"Well, c'mon then," I said softly, "Because a couple hours is time enough to say goodbye properly."

It was different that last time; he was more relaxed, and it seemed that an enormous weight had been lifted from his shoulders. I clung to him as though my life depended upon it, loving him desperately, wanting to tell him so but unwilling to cloud his happiness with any sort of guilt. I didn't want him to know I was hurting, because he'd tried so hard to prevent that happening. I shut it all out of my mind and just abandoned myself to his touch, moving with him, meeting him thrust for thrust, trying so hard to possess him completely if only for these few precious moments. The last time I saw him, he was waving cheerfully, smiling for all he was worth, on his way home.

***

It was six months later before I saw John again. Not in person; he was doing an interview with Yoko on some talk show or other. They were holding hands, and his face shone with happiness. They were expecting a baby and he seemed over the moon with joy.

I knew, looking at him sitting there, that he really was where he truly belonged. I supposed that he had long since stopped thinking about me; he no longer needed me, my job was finished, and he was at peace.

From then on, I thought of him often, but life got in the way of my complete concentration upon him.

I married and had babies, and sometimes I didn't think of him for days at a time.

I don't know how long it had been that I hadn't thought of him when I went to bed early that night years later, but when I woke up I heard the news on the radio; he was gone.

I cried inconsolably for days. Things were all different now. For the past six years he had been a memory, but at least I knew he was alive somewhere in the world, and happy. Now I felt like I would never smile again. Eventually, though, things returned to normal. Well, as normal as my life could ever be what with me being me and all. Now I can smile again when I think of him, and I feel grateful to have been able to be a part, if only a tiny one, of a life that was so huge and so important.

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