And Your Girl Can Sing

Chapter 9: Mach Schau!

    "You'd think the lady has never had a shag before," John sighed. I suddenly laughed, smirking and turning around to face him. "Wouldn't you like to know."

    He gaped. "You haven't?" I watched the top of his tongue touch his teeth. "Ask no questions and get told no lies." I kicked one foot in the air, only now seeming to realize that I had no shoes.

    "Here, take these, love." In an instant John had a pair of shoes in his hands, taken from a nearby doorway. They were a pair of red three inch heels, lip print designs covering the vinyl like material.

    I gaped at him. "They're not yours," I said slowly, taking in the atrocious yet strangely alluring design.

    "Hamburg, vice city of crime and punishment," John said. "Take them or leave them, love. Owner probably has them in half a dozen other colors." He snickered and held them out to me like a dead fish. I snatched them out of his hand, taking the challenge. "I'm going to make these fit as best as I can." Pulling on the shoe, I discovered my feet were slightly too big for them but it didn't matter. I stubbornly wobbled along next to John, clad in primarily black, wearing the ridiculous shoes and giving him my best scowl.

    "Don't go arse-over-tit now," John hummed. I made a face at him. We had begun to attract strange looks from the morning cleaning ladies and milkmen. John's hawaiian shirt was still on, but otherwise he looked fine. I, on the other hand looked right wonky, more like a stripper than anything. "Was trägst du da?" someone called from a balcony above. I heard a giggle beside the voice.

"Don't mind them, love," John whispered in my ear, sending a shiver down my spine, squeezing my hand. "They're all just jealous of how beautiful you are. Look, we've arrived."

I dropped his hand like it was a hot coal. He looked floored for a minute but recovered and started to speak, but I interrupted him. "What was that?"

"What was what?" he said. "Shite, can't you take a compliment?"

"Don't say it if you don't mean it."

"What does that mean?" he demanded. "Birds. Never direct with a lad."

"Don't talk to me about never being direct," I said, making a face and narrowing my eyes. "First you kiss me and then don't tell me why and don't explain and then you tell me I look beautiful, but how can the first thing mean anything to the second when—"

"It's bloody early to be yelling this loudly, Johnny," came a male voice from behind me, speaking in an accent not unlike John's. I jumped—he must have come out of the entrance of the Kaiserkeller behind me. Turning around, I almost screamed when I saw a young George Harrison, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers and a t shirt and carrying a cigarette, parts of his hair matted and parts standing up in an impressive cowlick. A tired look on his face, his skinny, pale face, but a smirk made its way to his lips as he took in John standing next to me, about to say something. George's eyebrows knitted as he asked, "Who's this bird? Paul says ye went off with a Mia, or a Sofia, or something." His eyes traveled to my shoes. "Ah, I bet she's a Mia."

I was still standing with my mouth hanging open, unable to say anything, just standing there and drinking in George Harrison, seventeen years old. "Does she talk?" he said flippantly, lighting the cig, cupping a thin hand around the flame and sticking the lighter back in the waistband of his boxer shorts.

"Well, she did when I last checked," John said.

"Gz—George—" I barely managed.

"Ah, the loon knows my name." He rolled his eyes and took a drag of his cig. "Johnny, by the way, those damn prellies won't let me sleep. That's why I'm up so bloody early."