Dear Sean

Seven

We had to leave Paris just like we had to leave Hamburg.

Paul’s weight covered me. He asked between pants: “Can’t we stay here forever?”

I didn’t answer, only kissed him to shut him up, pulling him closer, impossibly closer. He slid his arms behind my back that was slick with sweat.

“We could…stay…live here…”

He grunted slightly and I gasped, and it seemed that we felt as one.

“Learn French…” he added and I laughed softly.

“Maybe,” I said, out of breath and dizzied, not thinking clearly at all when I was feeling, smelling, and tasting the beautiful McCartney.

It was hard coming back. Neither of us wanted to leave. It was like coming back home after a vacation—but not the kind of vacation that was long and that left you feeling satisfied and wanting to go home. Our vacation was too short, and we didn’t want to be back so soon.

“Get a car, you delinquents!” an old man shouted as he drove by us.

We walked miserably on towards the general direction of Liverpool, our new mod haircuts ruffling in the wind. Paul had already lost his hat to that same wind, so I’d given him mine to wear instead. Riding the euphoria of love, we were both uncharacteristically kind and considerate.

“Think of Mike, waiting for his brother to come home,” I consoled, seeing the crestfallen look on Paul’s face.

“I…I…you’re right, I’m being inconsiderate,” Paul mumbled.

“That’s not what I’m sayin’,” I said, stopping Paul and looking straight into his eyes. “There are so many good things to look forward to at home. And…we’ll still be us. We should decide on a time to meet up every week, and you can tell your dad that on Sundays you’ll be writing with John.”

Paul’s expression brightened considerably. “Yeah, Sundays then.”

“Good. Now cheer up Paul.”

He nodded slightly and he leaned up as if to kiss me, but then remembered where he was. We looked round, and saw we were surrounded by cars, people rushing around ready to tell the police what those two English queers were doing.

Paul drew back slightly and I settled on touching his shoulder lightly.

Eventually another lorry came to take us up to London, though not the same lorry we took on our way there. We took other cars until we were finally back home in Liverpool.

Paul and I started missing each other’s company now that we were living in our own houses again, so we decided to meet up every Sunday for tea and writing.

“Mm, shit love, you taste good,” Paul mumbled.

“You’re funniest when you’re sloshed, Paulie.”

He drew back slightly, kneeling on the bed with his knees on the outside of my thighs while I lay down. Paul seemed to be enjoying his position of power. “You’re right pissed too, John. ‘Sides, I can make you do whatever I want,” he said, mock-threateningly.

I didn’t try to question that statement; the sooner he got his gorgeous lips back on mine, the better. He obliged to my unspoken request and practically crashed down onto me again, his coordination not the best. I tangled my fingers into his soft hair, feeling the new fringe Jürgen had cut on the both of us.

“Where do you get all this beer?” he asked when he broke for air.

“I buy it,” I chuckled, pulling him down lazily with one hand on the back of his neck. Paul resisted and stayed in his semi-upright position.

“Wait… I came here to write…” he said, his eyebrows quirked in an adorable way.

“Doesn’t matter,” I said.

“We should get something done before—mpf!”

I always got the last word in whether we should be working or fooling around.

I wasn’t in a serious mood that Sunday, so Paul and his lips would have to suffer the consequences.

“John!”

A shrill voice startled Paul into pulling back. Mimi was knocking sharply on the door.

“You boys are being awfully quiet. Are you two still alive in there?”

“We’re working!” I shot back, with more than a hint of irritation in my voice.

“Well, don’t be so quiet, it’s suspicious!”

The clicking of heels told us that Mimi had left again. I reached over the edge of the bed and picked a record at random. I put the needle on the record and turned the volume up.

“I’m gonna write a little letter, gonna mail it to my local DJ… It’s a rockin’ rhythm record I want my jockey to play…” the record belted out.

We resumed our writing to the sound of Chuck Berry.

We’d get a lot of work done, Paul and I.

Those Sundays were some of the best days of my life. I wonder what Uncle Paul does on Sundays now. Does he sit with Linda? Does he play with his kids? Does he think of me at all?