He liked the way she looked in polaroids; the way her pearly whites glimed, the way she radiated with joy. The stillness of her being was beautiful and refreshing. In photographs, Charlie couldn't retort, she could only gaze on. Depending on which photo you chose to pick up, she could even have a glint of happiness within her hues, too.

As the cigarette burned too close to his knuckle to be safe, John studied the photo book with interest. Each photo invoked a feeling or a thought. Who are they? When was that? What was I doin' then? Looking back at her memories proved to be almost as depressing as looking at his own. Perhaps it's just because she's so fuggin' intertwined with that part of my life; she'll always fuggin' be now, won't she? He took one last drag before stamping the glowing ember out in the bottom of an empty bowl.

That was the year he'd met Yoko. For the longest time it was that event he had highlighted and romanticized so much it invoked the ire of not only the public, but his mates too. John had babbled on and on about it, talking about the glory, the destiny, but there was always Charlie. The unheard shush, shush story pushed so far aside that Yoko wasn't even aware of it. He was sure that May had probably told her something was up by now; he was sure that she would know, but at that moment, Charlie was his. She was the secret he'd never wanted to leak, and she was still the one he was proud to have never done so.

It was wrong to believe that, though. That she was his secret; that Charlie was something he had chosen to keep secret for her sake. Quite truly, it was the other way around: Charlie had keep quiet, even in the face of a heartbreak. She was the good one. Charlie was always the good one.

John closed the book, pushing it back to its place on the table. The urge to take out another cigarette overcame him, but he thought better of it when he glanced at the open door. She was in there, sleeping or stubbornly refusing to succumb to his pissy attitude, and he was sitting there scornfully smoking like a chimney. It was always a game with John and her, and never did the world see her win or get treated fairly. He always gave her the shit end of the stick, and she let him. Guilt overwhelmed him into shoving the packet back into his coat pockets.

Reaching a solution inside of himself, John got off the stool and wandered back to the room. He peaked his head inside, looking to see what it was that keep her in there. His almond eyes caught sight of it all the way they hadn't when she took him there earlier that night. The walls were a cream color, plain and bare except for a large psydechilc poster near her queen sized bed. Something having to do with concerts and San Francisco, a merge of hot pinks and vibrant yellows to punctuate it's 'far out' point. Then there was the lamp, which was as plain as the walls; it's base was a cream pink, and it's shade was white. The lamp stood on a bed stand that was hand painted, with names and drawings. In the middle of this bland but beautiful universe laid the not so sleeping, but instead equally observant Charlie. Still bare, still beautiful, and still the most radiant thing the room had to offer. She greeted him with comfortable silence and acknowledgement.

"I'm ready to be a good boy," he quirked, his lip curling upwards on one side. Charlie rolled her eyes, muffling a laugh, "I suppose you're telling me Ta, bye then, yeah?"

"So soon?" he feigned being offended. "What d'ya take me as Charlotte? I'm a woman with morals."

"I thought I'd never live to see the day," she played along. He grinned at her, happy to be in her presence, happy she was quick to forgive and so damn lovable. "Not so kind, are you."

"No? I think I've offered you quite a bit of fuckin' hospitality there, Johnny."

He moaned in delight, causing her to throw eyes to the sky. "I suppose ye'r right." John moved his way to the bed, sitting down at the end. "Could do for more of it, you're kindness and," he pulled a face, "Hospitality, as it were."

She looked at him, stone faced for a beat. "I've given all I've got to you, John. I truly have."

John felt the weight of those words. Though the sentence had a different meaning, the tone of her voice had let the underlining problem slip. John allowed his thumb to gaze her bare calf, unbothered by the prickle of the hair that was starting to grow. He didn't mind shite like that; never truly had. What he minded was this--whatever it was that resided between himself and her that never of them could over come. He was willing to oblige to see it go; he'd do almost anything to go back to the way it was.

"We need to go home." She looked him directly in the eye, serious. "We can't keeping running. I know we've grown up in time full of people who worship that shit, but God John, where's the place to be if it's not home?"

"Poetic," he responded. John didn't like speaking like she was trying to. The avoidance of conversations that delved deep was fairly well known to the Liverpool native; John had spent too much of his life hiding behind something he wasn't in order to hide what he was. Quips, humor, hardness--they all worked as shields.

His laugh was hollow, and his eyes, telling. John had no where to turn now. "I can't," he swallowed. "I said that before, didn't I?"

"John," Charlotte repeated, sitting upwards. The sheet was disregarded, her breast and torso exposed as she moved closer to him. "Go home. Knock on the door. Ask for your key back. Just go back home...go home with me."

"Char I can't. Yoko...She's not so willing. She's hardheaded and I'm not sure we'll ever get on like that ever again."

She peered at him, sighing through her nose. Her fingers mussed with his fringe and she felt sorry. He knew she must've, the way her lips pointed downwards. "Sometimes I think about goin' back to Britain. Well, no I don't--I avoid that because I'm afraid I might." He laughed softly. "I've got unfinished business there."

"Why don't you want to?"

"I won't be let back in and then...Well, I'm fucked then, aren't I?"

"You always are in one way or another, aren't you?"

John perked his eyebrow. "That's what drew you to me, then, is it?"

She laughed, shaking her head. "Nah, I liked your accent. The way you say 'saw.' You were smart too, the way they said you were...and funny. And I was a bit drunk, too."

John leaned back on the bed, listening. Propping his head on his elbow, John spoke, "That's what they all say when ya get them pregnant, innit?"

"John," she warned. Though, she didn't take it to heart, letting her smile linger.

"Sorry," he told her sheepishly. His hand moved to the small of her back. Cold digits grazed her warm skin, pulling her closer to him. Soon, her head was on his chest, her body curled against his own. Her arms wrapped around his torso and they laid, quietly enjoying one another's presence the way proper lovers did. The way they should've been doing all along.

"I'm sorry Charlotte." He couldn't help but let the words roll. Genuinely, John felt sorrow for all he'd done to the woman. It had been three words repeated too much to be true, but they were - they were about the most truthful three words he'd ever let flow.

"Yeah." She acknowledged him. "Sing to me, Johnny."

"No-" John stopped rubbing circles on her back. " -I mean it, Charlotte, really."

She turned her head on his chest. "I know, John. I know." She nodded her head. "Just sing."

-----

' When you're down, and you're out, and there ain't nothing you could do about it, I'll ease your pain, gerl. Yes all you have to do is call my name. '