Dear Sean

Fifteen

Before the movie, we all had these silly bowl cuts that we called mop tops, that Paul and I had gotten cut on our trip to Paris.

My eyes widened as the blade neared my face.

Nooo… I shouted in my mind, narrating it dramatically. Not my sideburns!

I watched as the razor painted thick stripes of smooth skin and my sideburns were eradicated, cut off and washed away along with the thick foam.

The barber wiped off the blade, and washed my face away. My face looked odd like that, like the sides of my face were oddly naked.

“Alright, time for your hair now.”

I gulped.

I cut my mop top for the movie.

Paul ran his hand through my new, shorter hair. His eyes had something like sadness in them, and he looked as me as though he were searching for something. I reached up to cup his chin, before letting my hand drop, remembering that we’d left each other on a sour note. Old habits die hard.

I suppose absence makes the heart grow fonder, because I desperately wanted to kiss Paul at the moment. But we were still getting used to each other again, now was the time to court him, to say the right things to fix us.

Paul stepped away, remembering himself. George and Ringo were watching, most likely expecting a shouting match of cataclysmic proportions, but nothing happened. We were oddly… quiet. Muted.

“I’ve got an idea for the next album,” Paul said, finally tearing his eyes away from mine, and ending the sort of internal battle the two of us were having, using only our eyes.

Later that night Paul and I got a motel room.

We said nothing, an unspoken agreement forming, based on our mutual need. We weren’t emotional or tender like we could be when we wanted, but instead urgent and physical.

Paul was always the most vocal, and I was glad we’d chosen such a secluded location.

“John—bloody hell—oh, oh, oh—“

I stayed quiet, aside from the occasional gasp, wondering if this was where we were now, going to motel rooms. I held Paul as his body shook, and his toes curled into my back. Later I found myself up late, smoking a cigarette in silence, looking at his still form, bundled beneath the sheets on the other side of the bed, facing away from me.

We weren’t even touching.

We started our new album, entering our first year without touring since, I think, the beginning of the band. Paul and I would write songs together just like before, but it wasn’t really the same.

I ached for him to say it again.