If the Sun Has Faded Away...

Birthday Cake and Funeral For A Shirt

The kettle emitted a chirping whistle, indicating that the water had finally boiled.

While I tried to take it from the gas hob, the hot steel of the kettle accidently got in contact with my hand, sending a sharp burning sensation through it.

I let out a shriek of pain and quickly took my hand off the kettle : « Damn it ! »

I hurriedly opened the tap and brought my hand under the cold water, which had a calming effect on the slight burn.

« Hey, are you OK ?»

Taken by surprise by George's voice, I turned back to face him.

He had probably witnessed the small incident that I had just experienced. An alarmed expression was printed all over his face.

« Nothing to worry about, Greg », I smiled at him.

His face instantly lit up with his usual, beautifully crooked smile, when he heard me calling him by that nickname.

But he still looked worried.

He quickly walked towards me and took my hand in his. He gently touched the spot that had been in contact with the kettle. It had turned slightly red now.

The pain was still present, but it was not as sharp as it had been only a couple of seconds earlier.

George raised his eyes and locked his gaze into mine.

« Are you sure you're OK, Devi ? Isn't it paining ? »

« I'm fine, Georgie. Don't worry », I smiled at him.

He gave me a gentle smile as well. And without saying a word further, he grabbed the kettle. He began to pour the hot water into the six cups that were placed on the counter ahead.

« Let me do the job , for a change », he graced me with yet another warm smile. « Are you sure you're OK ?, he asked again.

I let out a mock sigh of exasperation, while I raised my eyes – I was actually touched by George's concern for me.

« I'm all right, George. Stop worrying for me, and drink your tea instead, will you ? », I gave George a gentle smile.

Suddenly, the door flew wide open, and Paul and John walked into the kitchen, engaged in what seemed to be a rather serious conversation :

« You can't go on endlessly saying We Can Work It Out... We Can Work It Out , Paul. Sound too repetitive and too optimistic for a song which deals about a lad who's trying to talk some sense into his bird. You've got to add a dash of vinegar to the honey you see.

« Yeah... You're probably right... », Paul mumbled, seemingly in toughts.

« But don't you think that the words « Life is very short... And there's no time... » are too dark, John?

I mean, it seems like you're almost referring to death, y' know...», Paul stressed on the word « death ».

I also noticed the particular way his long, beautiful eyebrows joined in a questionning frown

« Dam it, Paul ! This song's not about death », John's voice raised one octave higher.

« You wrote this song, so you should know, right ? These lines are just referring to the fact that fighting over trivial things makes no sense. But if you feel these lines are crap, you can do without them. I don't mind... »

John shrugged, in his usual « I don't give a damn » mannerism.

George and I exchanged a knowing glance.