Ain't She Sweet

35

Sunday 8th December 1963
In summary, from Friday through to early Sunday morning, the boys had been, well, arguably partying more than working, but still, were overwhelmed and exhausted by the end of the week. After a mere two and three-quarter hours rest during the dawn of Saturday, the languished Liverpudlians sleepwalked their torpid bodies to rehearsals, while their minds were adrift, vaporous clouds. Consequently, it was only with the additional help of caffeine (my specialty) and the natural high of their music which helped them persevere, before collapsing into a momentous afternoon nap; the four of them sandwiched between eachother on the dressing room couch.
And so, briefly, after a magnificent live performance in the evening, and the most spectacular telling off from management for their reckless bed time the night prior, the boys evidentially followed through and utterly ignored their warning, tumbling into what was almost an exact parallel of Friday night. I, on the other hand, wished them well on their way, instead appeasing the dull aching of my sluggish torso, begging for a bed to rest.

Evidentially, after my coma of approximately 8 hours or so in which I was absent from narrating our story, I awoke to pleasant hammering on my door the Sunday morning.

"Hey! Love! Open up the door will yeh'?"

In light of the fantastical tranquility of my slumber, my eyes fluttered awake, and with a slight yawn I rose, sauntering for the discontented door which bellowed and banged.

"Grace! Christ sake."

"Mm." I glowed, drawing the door back to find George discordantly resting against the frame.

"Well, you look well pet." He relieved a short pant.

"And you look as though you're yet to even go to bed." I beamed.

"Right. Exactly that. Ye' see, I've lost me' key."

"That doesn't surprise me."

"And well-"

"Brian will have your head on a pike unless you sort yourself."

"I know." His eyelids sagged, while the general gleaming of his pupils diminished as his heavy mind and body wore down his consciousness.

"He'll be wanting you down there by nine-"

"I get it." He knocked his forehead against the wall with a quiet bang.

"Get in here. Take a cold shower you idiot." I scoffed, lurching for his arm and shaking him awake, recognising a look of alarm in his expression.

It seems the romantic haze of my morning had dimmed within minutes, as I faced the five-o-clock shadow and never-o-clock self-control of this man-child.

"You need to slow down Geo, it's not even been a full twenty-four hours yet and here I am stripping you as though you're a forty-year-old alcoholic named Steve. Focus man, you're here for the music. How can you enjoy it when you can barely keep your eyes open?"

He mumbled and groaned, unbuckling his belt whilst I unbuttoned the front of his lightly stained shirt.

"Just step in the tub already." I sighed, helping him up.

In just his boxers, he stood rather vulnerably in my bathtub. Of all the things, so many imaginative girls could conceive such wonderful scenarios with a sleepy Beatle in their bathroom. I merely chuckled, mercilessly twisting the shower to its coldest and most powerful.

"Holy fu-" He erupted with life again as the pelting bullets of icy rage pierced his tender skin, his entire body staggering backwards against the frosty tiles of the shower.

"Good morning honey." I smiled, extending an arm with the refuge of a tender towel to rescue him. "I'll be outside when you're ready."

He shuddered, snatching the towel aggressively from me as he stumbled from the polar shower, only to catch his foot on the edge of the tub.