temporary fix || george harrison

58%

GEORGE SULKED away in the corner of the studio, tuning his guitar with his normal register of broodiness darkening his gaze as the rest of his bandmates chittered away at the runaway success of their newest single, I Want To Hold Your Hand, across the pond. It was mid January, 1964. Beatlemania was now just reaching the shores of the United States, and taking the rest of the planet by storm.

"Eppy says he's arrangin' a live performance on the Ed Sullivan Show- can ye believe it? Us? Four poor sods from Liverpool on the Ed Sullivan Show?!" Paul chirped to John with his puppy-dog-like cheeks glowing with excitement. John rolled his eyes as he held the sheet music up to his face to discern the notes written upon them. He attempted to muster the proper excitement to sheen to his best mate as he pranced about the recording studio like a man possessed.

The bloke was blind without his specs perched on his birdlike nose. Although he'd never admit it, John was hardly able to see the lovely faces of all the screaming birds who'd lately been crowding at their shows across the country.

It had been a year since Juliet "disappeared", and life had seemingly returned back to normal for the four lads from Liverpool. The time-traveling woman was never to be brought up, never to be unearthed from the deep grave she was buried in George's reverent mind.

It was if she never existed at all.

George singularly and quietly took care of Juliet's remaining affairs back in 1963 and remanded his love for her into a sudden and cold yield. How could he love a woman that lied to him? That hid her true self from him? For all he knew, he loved a ghost. A woman without any real substance. It wasn't love. It was a farce.

How could he love Juliet now that she'd sacrificed herself without giving them the chance to meet in the middle, to work things out?

It was beyond the young man, how cruel the universe seemed to be. How cruel love could be.

No matter, George would think. Love is dangerous. Best not to mess with it.

Today was truly like any other day that he's lived for the past year or so. Come to the studio, play his beloved instrument until his long fingers ached, and then go run up an egregious tab at the local pub and kill a pack of ciggies just for good measure. Why the fuck not? The band had a wee bit more pin money than they'd had in their days as The Quarry Men.

George's dark eyes flitted up to the clock on the wall as he listened to the ramblings of his best mates as they went on and on about their upcoming touchdown in the land of the free. It was half past noon. Another 12 more hours should do it, the lead guitarist silently mused, that should please dear old bird man Lenny.

George's silent thoughts were suddenly perturbed by the sound of the door to the sound studio hissing open, with George Martin stepping through with an especially bewildered expression dawned on his long face. The guitarist didn't even look up- he continued to tune his beloved instrument without even a care. Not that whatever Martin had to say would hold any salience for Hazza- no, Paul and John managed that for Ringo and him. More like controlled if George was going to be on the nose about it.

"What's got your knickers in a twist now, Martin?" John jibed as he gave up on reading sheet music and began to light a ciggie to forcefully ease his growing disdain for his myopia.

Martin pursed his lips and sighed as he gathered the correct words to spell out the situation at hand- it was rather peculiar. The young bird looked awfully familiar, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. Martin never paid much attention to the myriad of women the boys wandered in and out of the studio.

"There's a young lady in the lobby claiming she must speak to George this instant, she claims to know you and refuses to leave until she's granted airtime. She said she left in a flash the last time she'd seen you."