In My Life

In my life, I love you more

8 September 1988

The sensation of falling made Paul squeeze his eyes shut until, as suddenly as it started, it stopped and everything went quiet. Or was it? Slowly, he became aware of voices and sounds.

"Hush James, you'll wake your dad with all that ruckus!"

"Sorry mum!"

Paul kept his eyes closed and listened to his surroundings. Little by little, all the little familiar noises came together to form the symphony he liked to call home: a clock ticking, a blackbird chirping in the garden, someone walking through the room, a guitar being tuned. A hint of a smile tugged at the corners of his lips when he realised he was sprawled on the sofa at Peasmarsh.

Suddenly, a soft hand gently brushed his hair away from his face and a kiss was pressed on his temple. "Welcome back, sleepyhead." Paul stretched like a cat and lifted his bleary eyes to meet Linda's. "Thanks Lin. How long was I out?" Linda leaned in for a proper kiss, followed by a playful pat on the ridge of his nose, to which Paul involuntarily scrunched up his face. "A good few hours," she replied. "We already ate, but I saved you a plate if you're hungry."

"Be right there," Paul muttered, shrugging off the plaid someone - probably Linda - had draped over him. He took his time folding the blanket, and then slowly sauntered into the kitchen where he plunked down in his usual seat, pondering the dream. He vaguely registered the plate Linda put in front of him, but didn't think to acknowledge her or the food. Instead, he simply sat there, rubbing a finger back and forth across his bottom lip as images from his dream replayed in his mind's eye.

"Penny for your thoughts!"

Linda's comment jerked Paul from his daydream. "I'm sorry Lin, what were you saying?"

She rounded the table and settled herself in his lap. "What's the matter, babe? You haven't even touched your lasagna yet. You're not coming down with something are you?" she inquired, quickly resting a hand against Paul's face to gauge his temperature. "Well, you definitely don't have a fever, so what's put you off your tea then?"

"I'm fine, I guess I'm just not that hungry," he smiled, picking up a fork and pushing the food around the plate without even attempting to eat. No sooner had the words left his mouth, or a loud rumble of his stomach broke the silence in the room.

"Yeah, I can hear that," Linda guffawed. "Come on, eat something." With an amused smile on her face, she pulled the fork out of Paul's hand and started loading it with food. "It's been a while, but I think I remember how to do this. Open up...."

"Alright, alright. You win, I'll eat," he chuckled.

"Good. Now, I'll go up and tell that son of yours to get ready for bed. If that plate isn't at least half finished by the time I'll get back, I will wield that fork like it's nobody's business and feed you, whether you like it or not."

"Is that a threat?"

"No, it's a promise," she giggled, before heading upstairs to James' room.

Left by himself in the kitchen, Paul sighed and poked aimlessly at his food. He wondered why the short interview had such a massive impact. At least he reckoned that triggered the dream and his peculiar mood. He hadn't thought much about his secret adventures with John over the past years, and now it seemed he could think of nothing else. He hoped it would just be a short-lived thing, because dealing with it as it happened had been tough enough. Reliving it all without anybody to talk to might very well be even worse.

He was the only one left to know about the affair, Paul mused as he dutifully finished his lasagna. Though he hadn't spoken all that much about it with his father after leaving Liverpool, it had always been comforting to know he could simply get on the telephone and ask for advice. And then there was that day, twelve years ago, when it was no longer possible to talk to his dad about anything at all. After that it was just him and John and for the sake of peace, they hadn't discussed the topic that much either. Of course, any chance of a conversation with John - meaningful or otherwise - was obliterated soon thereafter. Everyone who was ever told about it was gone, save for him.