John knew he hadn't been the best husband to Yoko. Apart of him knew he wasn't going to chalk up to husband of the decade the first year of their marriage. Life had been rapidly changing, and all John knew, his very existence, was tilted and criticized by the whole of England. They'd started off on a shaky foundation, and it simply hadn't went up hill from there.

"Charlie," he responded nonchalantly, twisting the phone wire around his finger. He leaned against the counter, staring pointedly at nothing. "Yes, Charlie. Charlie, er—I'm not sure." He paused, letting Yoko speak. "No, I don't. I like her."

Life had drawn them to this point. She was millions miles away, reading gossip headlines, talking to a heartbroken May Pang, and most importantly, scolding him after all was said and done. John wasn't angry with her, not with the excitement of hearing her fueling him, but he wish she wouldn't do this. John knew what he'd been doing; he didn't need the guilt of her reports during the scarce time they talked to each other in every other day.

"She's pretty, John, but the deal was that May would be you're um, girl." His wife told him meekly.

"Yoko, I'm ready to move on," John responded. He checked to see if anyone was coming, or near, before continuing. "May is a phone book t'me these days and—"

"So this Charlie, she's your new girl then?"

"Well, no—She's my friend."

"You said you had sex with her."

"I did, yes. Sometimes we fuck our friends, don't we?" John found himself grinning. Yoko didn't find him as funny. "Yes, I suppose."

"She's a good friend of mine. I've know her ages." John confided in his wife. "I've know her since the mid '60s."

He was being discrete, vague, not giving her all the information he had stored about Charlie, because she was still a secret to him. Their relationship would always hold an air of secrecy because it would always belong to apart of their lives suffocated with shame. Even now, it was so odd, even to him, even to the "weird" Beatle. He was talking to his wife about a past or present—whatever she was—mistress; it was enough to drive a sane man mad, let alone one like him.

"Listen, Yoko, I better go. I've got to be at the studio soon." He leaned against the table. He listened to her breathe, and his heart ached. John loved Yoko, he truly did. "I miss you."

"It's not time yet," she told him quietly. John knew she was going to say that because she always said that. His heart still felt heavy. "Goodbye John. I'll call you soon."

"Yeh," he grinned. "Call me soon."

The line went blank soon after and he was left listening to the silence that carried throughout Charlie's small flat. She was at work, said she'd be back by four, and that was only a couple of minutes away.

He thought he'd watch tv, but he never got around to turning it on. John stood by the phone for awhile, thinking about ringing Yoko again and telling her why he deserved to be back, by her side, but not all of him wanted to be there so he didn't.

John thought back to a month ago, when he and Harry had wandered into a psychic at a party. Perhaps he'd been out of his mind on drugs then, perhaps just a little stoned, but he remember her words good and clear because it was enough to sober just about any bloke. She had told him that he was going to have a baby in the future. She never said with who or where, or what the future was, exactly. It was a puzzle, and he tried to figure out if this piece of his life was the corner piece she'd knocked away when she gave him that news.

Charlie had his baby. He hadn't thought much about that recently, because it felt surreal, and made him ill. John wasn't a complete bastard, he understood when he caused pain and felt empathy, naturally, but this was more than empathy he felt; he was repulsed by his actions. Charlie had loved him for some foolish reason and he liked her, liked her enough to have her by his side that whole month, and he got her up the duff. And sure, he didn't know that, but he'd never ask.

That damn psychic never gave him any specifics, so he didn't know still what she meant or if the prophecy had been fulfilled and he could be set free.

John had been broke out of his reverie by the jangle of keys and the undoing of the lock. He stood straight, and shuffled over to the couch, dangling his limbs over its yellow cushioned arms. Charlie walked in with a bag of food in one hand and a look of surprise on her face. She was wearing her uniform, and she looked tired and smelt like a burger but he instantly developed the urge to kiss her because she hadn't yelled at him or told him to fuck off.

"You're still here," she spoke. He nodded, "I'm overstaying me visit awhile longer."

"I brought you a burger." She held the white bag in her hand, shaking it. "My favorite. It's got mozzarella cheese, tomatoes, bacon. Well, it was mine but I'm not very hungry."

"Ta." He retrieved the grease stained sack with glee, fetching the burger out and sitting upwards. Charlie plopped down beside him and unbuttoned her uniform, and John let his eyes gaze momentarily at her breast. It was a pervy thing to do, and he wasn't at all subtle about it, and he knew she knew what he was doing by the way he shifted. He stopped looking when she moved. Instead, he ate the burger, and turned on the telly, and asked, "How was it?"

"Same as always," she responded casually. "It's like being a Beatle. It's alright and it's okay, and then it isn't anymore," she shrugged. "Life's like being a Beatle."

John understood the metaphor far more than she could comprehend. He chewed silently on the burger before he looked at her. "Yeh, something like that, innit?"

Life was a bitch, and so were the Beatles. He didn't hate them, didn't hate what had happened, but he wouldn't relive any of it for any amount of money. Charlie knew what it was like, being with him for that tour. She felt the chaos, the terror, and she witnessed the upside. She had experienced the mansions and she had felt the wrath of Brian, of Derek, of the little teeny boppers so eager to take her place they practically killed to get there. When she said life was like being a Beatle he knew the depth of it, and so he sat quiet, because he wasn't much good with depth unless it was Paul's mouth it was coming from.

"Do you miss them?" Charlie glanced over at John. "The Beatles, I mean. George, Paul, Ringo. Them."

"Course, yeah."

"I miss George all the time," she told him. He perked his eyebrow out of curiosity and she delved into the details. "He was always kind to me, George. I remember him always being very kind, and handsome. He never flirted like Paul, and he wasn't sulky like Ringo; he was always just boyish and sweet."

"George's different now, yanno."

Charlie shrugged. "We all are, John. Don't get jealous."

He wasn't jealous, was he? Perhaps, just subtle enough to throw him off. It was easy for that feeling to develop, to take him over, but it was just subtle tonight. He didn't hate George, and he didn't hate Charlie.

John liked sitting there with her, because she didn't make him angry. With Charlie, John never felt the need to be angry because he wasn't compensating for what he didn't have, and he wasn't afraid. Charlie was idealistic, a bit of an alternate universe the world had been so kind to give him, not once, but twice, and since they'd cleared the air momentarily, he'd been holding onto that. He felt in love, and tired, but namely in love.

"I feel like a teenager." Charlie gazed up at the ceiling, looking as if the answer to it all laid there. She closed her eyes, swallowed, and let silence envelope them. John reached over and grabbed her exposed thigh, wanting to feel her warmth. "Ah," she reacted, flinching. "They're cold."

But she didn't remove them. Those cold digits of his rested against her warm olive complexion. She smelt like the place she worked, but he didn't mind because he probably smelt of joints and ciggies.

Her legs were smooth today. He didn't know when she'd found the time, between yesterday and today, to shave but miraculously she had. John moved his hand upwards, and then downwards to her knee. Then he moved his digits again, reaching the end of her uniform skirt. Every bit was smooth and soft. It mattered not, because he would've found her attractive either way. He just wandered why she shaved one day and not the next day, and hoped it had something to do with sexual appeal and desire to do once more what they'd done yesterday.

"I called Yoko on yer phone today."

"What?" she jerked up. "That'll cost a billion John."

"I know, I know. That's why I told you. Just send me the bill, 'nd I'll pay it."

Charlie glared at him, and he wished he'd just let her be surprised by the number she received next month. "I promise," he squeezed her thigh. Charlie placed her hand on top of his and shook her head. "John," she warned.

"Charlie," he bantered. "Give us a kiss."

"No."

"Just one."

"No."

"Don't be a pratt."

She huffed. "I let you keep your hand on my thigh and I'm a pratt."

"Precisely, yeh," he grinned at her. Charlie shook her head, but let a grin slid across her lips.

John took the last bite of the burger, and wiped his hands on his jeans. This earned a look of disgust from Charlie and he shrugged his shoulders hopelessly, unable to hide the lack of care shuffling through his body. "You were raised better than that, I'm sure," she told him, handing him a napkin, "You haven't done that to any of my stuff, have you?" 

Instead of answering the question, John grabbed Charlie's wrist and pulled her close to him. She was mere inches from him. Her tanned complexion was house to a look of awe and exhaustion, which he took for granted. Because he knew her protest could only be minimal, he pressed their lips together. She tugged her wrist away from him, but otherwise did nothing to push him away, and this made him feel worse than he would've if she'd pulled away from him; he took from her once more, and she complied. John knew how she felt when he did that now, and he'd been thinking about it all day. He didn't like when he hurt her, even if he did it frequently.

"Do you want to kiss me?" he asked her. He'd never asked permission, not for things like kissing. Not even for sex, honestly. He never took sex, but he'd never pulled back, either, not to ask if they wanted it like he did. When Charlie nodded, John smiled briefly before returning his lips to hers. Charlie moved her body closer to him. John placed his hand on the small of her back and guided her onto his lap. She followed his movements, and shifted comfortably so she could lean down and kiss him. Her hands shifted through his curly locks and he felt like a drunken kid again, high on her, and high on the aroma of the world. He remembered what it felt like to be high--not on acid, or pot--but on age, on groups of people. He was so sure of himself then, even if he did hate himself. You couldn't not be; half the time he thought he was Jesus Christ himself because it was wrong not to. Now it wasn't. Now he could feel empty and lonely, and upset and it was appropriate because he was. 

After awhile of making out like children, they pulled apart and she fell haplessly off of him,  with her legs resting on his lap. He could see her knickers. His mouth almost opened to say that, to tease her about the yellow and the pink, and the bow, but he closed his parted lips because what was the point? She was mute and the world was content, and she liked him. The stars must've aligned because he thought perhaps, maybe, he loved her. 

Of course she wasn't Yoko, and she never would be, but all the same, she made him love her. Charlie sat innocently, watching the ceiling, breathing quietly, and he sat, watching her, feeling something he'd had to debate with May countless times. Yoko wanted him gone, and now he was, and he felt alright because of it. She wanted him to feel this, to feel alright.

 Yoko didn't want him, did she?

"Charlie," he patted her leg. "Charlie, let's get married."