And Your Girl Can Sing

Chapter 32: A Spanish Soap Opera: My Life, Currently

    John got defensive. "Well, mate, fuck off yourself! If you'd just let me explain—"

    "Don't tell him to fuck off!" I stepped in. "We have no right to do that. We are completely in the wrong—"

    "Maybe you are—you definitely are—but I'm not, so you can't tell me what to do, Cora!" John stepped forwards a little and I stepped back; Paul moved in front of me and John roared, "I'm not going to fucking attack you! Why does—"

    Silence. His voice faded into the air; passerby stared a little and continued walking. "I'm not dealing with this shit," he continued. "You all—" he jabbed a finger at me and Paul. "You all, this is your problem. I'm getting the bloody hell out of here." He faded into the people ahead of him, gone, away, like the pull of a trigger.

***

    Pete left soon after that.

    Paul and I were sitting on a bench by the canal. He ran a hand through his dark hair and looked up at me, his large brown eyes stormy. I was crying. I rarely cried, and here I was, overwhelmed with the events of the past ten minutes that I couldn't stop the waterworks. Paul had let me cry for a few minutes and then brought out a tissue and handed it to me. The action felt reluctant and I didn't blame him.

    At least I started after John left. I hadn't expected him to be so angry, so unwilling to work things out. He just got up and left.

    "I'm so, so, sorry," I whispered to Paul, staring at the ground.

    He made a noise I couldn't place.

     "It really wasn't like that," I said slowly, trying to communicate exactly what happened. "The truth this time—absolute truth. I went to Koschmider's office to warn John. He said you were in Rosa's room. That's when Koschmider came to the door. John told me you don't want to be remembered as a felon, right? You want to get out of here, right? And then he told me sorry, it's the only way, and he kissed me. He kissed me," I said, feeling the words in my mouth.

    Paul was silent. I let him think and used up the 1/144th of the tissue that wasn't already damp.

    At last he spoke. "Can I ask you something, Cora? I want the truth."

    "I wouldn't give you anything less," I whispered. I reached forwards to grab his hand but he gently took it away from me. "I can't hold you until I know the answer to this question. Are you still in love with John?"

    Click.

    Again, the slideshow of late afternoon kisses, jamming and singing, a slap, absolutely stimulating conversations about whatever and whenever, terrible conflict resolution, Do you want to know a secret, shaking hands, infatuation, the possibility of love, good and bad, past and future, John Winston Lennon.

    I lifted my head to gaze at Paul. The moonlight behind him framed his head and he looked like an angel. My angel—but he wouldn't be any longer. I knew it inside me. I could feel it, and and I had to break it off now before anything else happened.

    I nodded, giving in to truth quietly.

    I heard him silently begin the first phonetic of a curse word, and then catch his breath.

    "I'm so sorry, Paul—"

    "I did not want to hear that," he said, the side of his mouth trembling, his very voice trembling; his eyes suddenly bright. I felt the wet tissue in my hand and it crumbled in my fist. "I love you."

    "You don't mean—"

    "You know it. Since the first day I met you. You were John's, though, are you going to keep being his forever? Because you shouldn't have hurt me. Fuck it, you shouldn't have said yes to me you shouldn't have asked me out you shouldn't have kissed me—"

    A sound came from my throat, a cross between a growl and a screech. "Stop!"

    He caught his breath. "You heartbreaker. First him—John— then me. What are you going to do, date him and then break up with him again?" His words were the edge of glass, cutting at me, they hurt because they held the possibility of becoming truth.

    I didn't know what to say. Paul was different that George in the sense that he had feelings for me and it was insensitive to discuss how I felt. I sat, despondent, feeling mixed up and terrible. People passed, all the lonely people, Paul and I sat by the water, a few inches of space separating our relationship.

    "We can't be together anymore," Paul said. He wasn't looking at me, but rather off to the side away from me. His words were a given, but when they were actually said, they hurt.

    "I know. And I'm so, so, sorry—"

    "Save it," Paul said shortly. "I know." He coughed, turning towards me, his eyes wet. "I'm going home. We have a plane to catch tomorrow.

    "A plane?" I whispered.

    "Back to dear old Liverpool. Since you had no papers, the cops just sent you back with us. I have the tickets here," he said as he patted his pocket. "Although I have no idea where you're going to stay. You were supposed to stay with me," he finished bitterly.

    "I—"

    He cut me off. "I'll see you at the airport, then," he said. He stood, and I slowly imitated him. "Can I have one last hug?" he whispered.

    "Of course, love," I told him, and fell into his arms. We hugged there by the water, ordinary people passing us and perhaps thinking what a cute couple, when in fact it was just the opposite. I took in his smell one last time, relishing the memory of when we were together, and a quiet sob came out of me as I realized my dream for so many years had been fulfilled, and then vanquished.

*** paul stans plss dont hate me :,) ***