Still Sleeping Next To Me

four

Lennon wakes up with a crick in her neck and the imprints of the pillow pressed into her cheek. She wakes up to French conversations floating through the thin walls of their hotel room, and to the creaking of the old pipes in the bathroom, and to the smell of a menthol cigarette.

She does not wake up to Harry.

That's more terrifying than it has a right to be.

Careful not to fall, she tugs the pale, blue sheets closer around her shoulders and clambers out of the bathtub onto the cool tile. Even if she can't wake up to Harry, maybe Harry can wake up to her, and maybe that will be enough for both of them.

Except Harry isn't curled up in the bed like she thought he would be. There's evidence of his erratic existence scattered all over the apartment; his lavender sweater hangs lazily over the back of the tan love seat, an empty pack of Marlboro's is crumpled on the floor, and the covers are rumpled.

Lennon sits down on the old carpet, biting her lip as she types out a text. it's okay. And then a second later, just in case: please don't go away again.

The response never comes. She didn't think it would. The only thing that buzzes through are urgent texts from her mother and Anne and Gemma, and that's all too much, so she shuts off her phone again and stands, hoping he'll at least see the texts. Hoping he cares enough to listen.

She pulls on of Harry's t-shirts, an old grey one that he's had since sixth form. It's got a stain on the bottom, a dark magenta dot, from one of the times he helped her dye her hair. Even when they aren't together, their existences are intricately intertwined. They always have been.

Lennon goes to Cafèothèque again. The familiar cashier lights up as she enters, already stringing together excited, accent-lilted English before she even gets to the counter. "Pink Haired girl!" she says brightly. "I think, ehm, you should tell me your real name, no? We are friends now."

"Lennon," she responds, lips pulling into a grin. "You?"

"Amélie," she cheers. "And your lover, who is he? And where is he?"

"Harry. He's not - we're not like that. He's just a friend."

"Oh." Amélie frowns, fiddling with the pen in her fingertips. "You love him though, oui?"

Lennon swallows dryly. "Oui."

"That is okay, ma chère. He is too tired to love right now, but it is better here." She clears her throat, smiling again. There's poorly hidden pity tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Now what would you like to eat?"

Lennon rattles off her now familiar order (coffee and a crossaint because they go well with Harry's cigarettes), and then she wonders if Harry ate this morning. If he ate last night. If he's ever going to fit in his sweater again. She wants to ask, but she doesn't want Amélie's pity-filled smiles.

Instead, Lennon forces a smile on her face as she grabs her coffee. "Do you know where a library is?"

"Bibliothèque? Oui, oui, take the métro, line 8 or 9, there is the American Library. Okay?"

"Merci."

Amélie grins. "Of course, Lennon. Au revoir!"

"Au revoir," Lennon says, waving over her shoulder.

* * * *

The city isn't as charming without Harry. Without Harry, it's quirkiness comes off as strange, and the flickering lights aren't pretty, they're annoying. The graffiti on a brick wall isn't art, it's vandalism. Without Harry there, the magic is lost, and it's just another dirty city to disappear in.