Candy [MCCARTNEY]

FIVE

THE JESTER APPEARS VALUABLE

  ✞ 

It seemed that I always found myself in bed, thinking about him. That I got as much information as I could and returned to home-base, covering myself with my blanket and curling my toes in excitement at the thought of The Preacher one day touching me with the same concentration that bestowed his face while he listened carefully to sermons and whispers.

For now, however, I'd only have the linking of our lips through the filter of a cigarette, and that half-life would be quickly reached. I needed something tangible. Something to take home and to hold in my hands that didn't belong in the bin.

Preferably Paul, himself, but that would need some work.

"What an idiot," I mumbled in the darkness as George's name flashed across the top of my phone screen at 11:26 pm, reading:

George Harrison
look at what i tagged you in on fb

Beginning to roll my eyes at the idea of whatever stupid post George was referencing, I stopped in sudden realization. 

Why had I never thought of it? Had my thought processes been so focused on memorizing specific imagery, specifically the veins spreading over the top of his hands and the shape of his fingers when they gripped rails and books? Yes. Next question.

Immediately switching over to my Facebook app, I almost typed in 'Paul', but alas, from what I bothered to see, Paul's last name was neither Newson, Allen, or Sterling.

Dropping my phone down onto the pillow beside me in frustration, I decided that perhaps it would help to know just what the fuck his last name was before proceeding with any plan to stalk the poor guy on social media. 

  ✞ 

"Where are you off to now, Rebecca?" Mum asked as she walked past the kitchen bench, the washing basket on her hip.

"Going to see George." I grinned sheepishly, under the impression it was something she wanted to hear at any hour of the day — but alas, Mum frowned at me. 

"Right now? It's nearly one. Have you had any time to do some homework? At all?"

I leaned against the counter, reaching for a nectarine in the fruit bowl. She was going to be a bit more difficult to smooth out today, apparently. "I can do stuff when I get home. There's heaps of time."

With obvious dissatisfaction on her face, Mum moved on and I headed for the door, stopping only briefly to pull my shoes on and roll my eyes as Mum called out: "you're coming to church this weekend, then!"

Not an issue anymore.

The park down the street was always a quick walk when I was motivated and eager to discuss something new to George. Although today I would come empty-handed, I would be kidding myself if I didn't admit that I had grown fond of his company. He was witty, sharp-tongued, and impressively thoughtful — not including the fact that the awkwardness between us had cracked off and crumbled like chalk.

The path was winding, spotted with etchings and weeds growing in the concrete gaps disguised as powdery flowers.
I made it in under 10 minutes, arriving at the hedges lining the entry of the park, viciously attempting to flatten down the strands of my hair that were curling around my ears in odd directions.