In My Life | McLennon

2

The fab four sat in their music studio tuning instruments, chatting, and adjusting audios.

John sat next to George, tuning his guitar with him.

but he just couldn't stop thinking about Paul.

It's not like he was thinking about him because he was worried or anxious. He was thinking about him because he loved him.

"John? Are you listening to me, Lennon?"

John snapped out of his trance, looking up at the man he was thinking about.

"Yes, of course."

"Can you help me out here?"

"Y-yeah."

"Can you help me find my capo?"

"Are you on acoustic today?"

"Well yes, we're practicing Norwegian Wood; and you're on guitar with me."

"Alright, then, I'll help."

Paul walked around the studio in a pair of pants that hugged his frame nicely. They flared a bit at the bottom almost like bell bottoms, adding lovely dimension to his lower half.

His shoes; a pair of black boots with small heels on them. Click, click, click, with every movement he made.

His top; a floral dress top tucked into his pants with a couple of buttons undone across the top. Why did he choose to dress like that this morning, John thought to himself, such a tease.

The way that his derrière was pronounced in the pants he was wearing didn't help at all.

"Well, come on, Lenny, help me out."

Lennon snapped back to reality, getting up and wandering around.

"Found it," Paul said, on his hands and knees on the ground, capo in hand.

John swallowed. "Which guitar do you want?" he asked shakily.

"Give me the Epiphone," said Paul. John handed him the guitar gingerly.

"ahem," went George. The pair looked up at an irritated George and Ringo. "Sorry, lost me capo, won't do it again, promise," said Paul.

"Hope you rested your voice, John," Paul said.
"Why for?"

"You're singin', of course."

"Well hell, I didn't know that."

"Get on with it, now."

John had the lyrics memorized, though he had it in his head that Paul would be the one to sing.

The stench of cigarettes filled the air, choking whoever wasn't used to the potent smell. Oh, how John craved one, to get earlier's dirty thoughts off his mind for a moment. To focus on a fag rather than Paul.

And when I awoke
I was alone
This bird had flown

Paul gently strummed at his guitar, very focused. his dark hair fell over his face, a bit greasy from sweat.

So I lit a fire
Isn't it good
Norwegian wood?

"Good job, mate, that was fantastic," George complimented, "I love playing guitar, but it was nice to have a little break."

John nodded. "I need me a fag, if ye don't mind," he said.

George quickly lit one for him. John took the menthol taste to his lips, inhaling deeply. "Damn John, you look like you haven't smoked in a week," said Paul.

"I needed it," John shot back.

"I've got an idea," said John, "we should go to a bar here in a bit. After we're done practicing."

The band looked at each other and nodded. Paul took John's arm and took him into another room without warning.

"You mean a lot to me, John. Promise me you'll be responsible tonight," said Paul.

John struggled with depression; he often ran to drinking to try and numb the pain. If not that, then it was pot.

"I told you before, I'm not great, but I'll do my best," said John. Paul pursed his lips and went on, back to the recording room.

The next couple of hours went by painfully slow, and the teasing by Paul continued. John wasn't sure if Paul was doing it on purpose or what, but it was driving him insane.

The clock had no mercy; 1 PM. 2:30 PM.

All it did was crawl by.

John craved the moment that clock hit 9:30 at night, so he could get the hell out of there and get to drinking.

When the time did come, John was jumpy about it. Their cab came, and the group shot out the door and into the cab.

"I think we all need this, honestly," says Paul.