Beatle Girl

How Much?

–One Week Later–

The night of your first meeting George said he would meet you at your house in a week when he could take off the bandage and the bruises wouldn't look terrible. You planned to take him to the park down the road where there was a beautiful garden that you visited often. He mentioned something about wanting to see your paintings as well, so you've been cleaning your apartment as best as you can since you got home that night.

The week you spent waiting has been pretty hellish. The Beatles haven't been playing at the Cavern, of course, so it's been nothing but the bands you've always hated. You're left spending most of your time zoned out, thinking of George. He hasn't left your mind since you got home that night and thoughts of him have become all-consuming. The excitement for this date has grown to an almost unbearable level.

You've spent all morning so far getting ready and giving yourself pep talks in the mirror. He should be here any minute now, so you wait by cleaning the apartment yet again. It's a studio — the only thing you could afford — but it's quite spacious for how low the rent is. There's enough space for a mini kitchen, a couch, and a bed more than big enough for just you. Your racks of paintings are no doubt overflowing, but it seems that would happen anywhere at this point.

Just as you were wiping down the kitchen once more, you hear your doorbell ring. You shout out a quick "I'm coming!" as you run across the room to put your cleaning rag in the laundry basket. Your heartbeat quickens. You run your hands through your hair one last time, take a deep breath, and open the door. He's there on the other side, smiling.

"George, hi!" You say, a bit too enthusiastically. He's wearing a black turtleneck and his hair is fluffier than you've ever seen it. You've never seen him not dressed up for a live show, so you're not used to him wearing anything other than a grey suit. But god, he is good-looking in anything.

"Hello," he says through a laugh. He goes in for a hug and you wrap your arms around his shoulders. He smells of expensive cologne, which you were not expecting. You imagine one of the bandmates lending it to him and the thought amuses you.

The hug breaks, so you step back, opening the door wider to let him in. He walks through the doorway, eyes searching the space. You watch for his reaction, absently smiling.

"This place is really nice, actually." His eyes stop searching and finally land on yours.

"You're surprised?"

"Not because I didn't think you'd have a nice place, it's just because it's Liverpool. We're not known for having the best apartments." He chuckles. "But this is nice. You brought your American flare to it."

You laugh. "You like an American flare?"

"In this case."

He looks around again and spots your paintings. He walks over and you follow. He gently picks up one of the ones leaning against the wall and admires it. You stand close to him, looking at it as well. It's one of your many realism paintings; this one is of a pond with a beautiful willow tree. There are two swans, one on the ground behind the pond, the other mid-air, flying away. You see it as objectively well done, though you are indifferent towards it.

You experience a strange disconnect between yourself and your paintings. You figure it's because you know you're making them to sell them, so you really can't get attached. But it's gotten to the point where the second you finish painting them, it feels like someone else made it. It lets you look at your work objectively, which is nice, but you can't shake the feeling that this isn't how you should be feeling.

George is silent for a while, eyes scanning the canvas. He lets out a quiet "wow" that makes you giggle. He sets it down and picks up another, then another, then another. He's gone through half of your collection by the time he looks at you again. "These are really amazing!" It seems he has more to say, but doesn't know the word for it. Instead, his mouth hangs open as he looks at another painting. It makes you laugh hard, but he stays in his shocked face. He sets the painting he was looking at down at looks at you. "You're quite impressive, huh?"

"You seem to think that."

"And you said you're selling them?" He reaches for his back pocket.

"Yeah, but–"

"How much for this one?" He brings out his wallet, pointing at the one he most recently looked at. It's a close-up of a broken pomegranate, surrounded by flowers. It has the most vibrant colors of all of your paintings – you tend to stick to a more subdued color palette – so you find it interesting that he chose this one.

"Um, maybe £250 quid?"

"Easy." He pulls out five £50 pound notes with a smile. You take the money, your agape mouth matching the one he had moments ago. He looks at the painting again. "I really love this one."

"How do you just have £250 pounds in your wallet? I said that thinking you weren't going to have the money yet."

"Oh, you haven't heard? Our single is doing really well. Brian just gave us our first paycheck."

"What single?"

"Wow," he shakes his head, teasingly. "This whole time I thought you were a fan."

You laugh, touching his arm. "Seriously, what single?"

"We released our first single a few weeks ago, 'Love Me Do'. We're going to release our first album this week."

"Really?" You stare at him with wide eyes. "Oh my god, George, that's so exciting!"

"Yeah, it feels like the band is actually going somewhere."

"Oh, George, I'm so proud of you."

"Thank you." His voice sounds completely genuine. He smiles softly. "You'll be at this point with your paintings soon, I'm sure of it. This whole rack will be empty before you know it."

You smile widely at him. You haven't felt this appreciated in a long time, maybe ever. You bask in the feeling.

"Do you want to see where I got the inspiration for that painting?" You say, referring to the one he just bought.

"Oh, I'd love to."