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— 1971
Sunlight. She scribbled it out. Love. She scribbled that out too. Hennessy.
She silently applauded her mind's work as she made her way to the kitchen to have a glass of wine. All day everyday she struggled to write something. One measly thing to explain how she felt. Her insides. How they screamed at her to better herself, for herself.
The door opened, but she was too busy pouring wine to care. Glass after glass kept her on her toes lately. Arms wrapped around her waist but she was too focused on the alcohol slipping down her throat. She instantly felt better, downing the entire glass and turning around in Paul's grip.
"That's my girl, wine at 2:30."
She didn't know how to respond, wanting so desperately to fire back at him for being home so late. It hardly phased her anymore. The band was through, Paul spent most of the days finalizing shit John and Yoko didn't and sulking about the shit music he made now without the rest of them.
She'd only spoken to George the other day, and he was on about John and Yoko taking everything the wrong way and accusing him and Paul of ruining everything, when they all knew it was over long before any of it was even brought up. She didn't know how to respond to him either.
"Can't sleep?" Paul asked, grabbing himself a glass.
"Can't write."
"You? Can't write?" He scoffed, and she'd be lying if she said it didn't light her heart up a little bit. "I know you're joking."
She poured another glass, downing it as quick as the first one and another one was gone before she even processed completely swallowing the first one. The couch looked unbelievably comfy from where she stood, so she guided herself over and sat down. Paul joined her, setting his glass down on the table and propping himself over to face her.
"You're stressed, what's going on?" Paul asked.
"God, you're full of questions tonight, aren't you?" part of her immediately regretted snapping at him, the drunk part covering it quickly with a look of disgust.
"I'm curious for you is all."
"You could butt out."
"Or I could do my job?" he said that part as if it was a question, as if it was obvious.
"Isn't your job to make music with the band? Oh," He paused. That hit him. "Right. The band."
"Don't be like that," he said, his attitude quickly shifting as fast as hers. She chuckled at him.
"You're angry," she laughed, picking up his glass to down that too. "You're really pissed off."
"Is that funny?"
She laughed again, this time louder. "Everything's funny these days with you, Paul! You should become a fucking comedian!"
He was confused. Very, very, very confused. Wasn't she happy with him a few moments ago? What the hell happened between then and now? He frowned at her. No, she wasn't mad; she was drunk.
"You're drunk," he said, standing from the couch to help her up. "You need sleep, let's go to bed."
"Don't fucking touch me, Paul," she pushed him away, curling her legs underneath her to get farther away. "I don't want to be touched by you."
"Why?" he was surprised by her outburst.
"Well, I don't want to be touched by the hands that you used to touch some other woman, do I?" she questioned. Her face shined in the light, and it was only then did he see her crying. Her features stayed completely still, not a lip quivering or an eyebrow twitching. She was emotionless. She broke.
Paul paused, running a rough hand through his hair. He opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out.
"Your shit's packed," she said, shaking her head again. "Just get the fuck out."
"What?" Paul said quickly. "My what?"
"Get your shit, and get the FUCK out."
"You need some sleep, you're drunk, come on-" he reached a hand towards her again, but she pulled away.
"I said don't touch me!"
"Fine," Paul said. "I'll let you come when your ready."
"I'm not going to. I'm never sleeping in the same goddamn bed as you ever again."
His heart sank. What did she mean? What the hell was she talking about?
"What're you talking about?"
"Don't think Isabelle didn't call me after you two slept together," she said calmly. "I know everything. Five months? God, Paul, if you were that unhappy you could've just said so."
"Listen to me," he started, his heartbeat quickening. "She meant nothing to me. It was a mistake. I love you and only you. No one else-"
"A mistake? A five month long mistake?" she yelled, startling him backwards. "You don't love me! Mistakes don't last for five months!"
"No, you don't understand, she came onto me!"
"And you let it happen!" she argued. "For FIVE MONTHS!"
"Please." His tears were coming down hard now, as were hers. She was hyperventilating at this point; she may have been drunk, but she was sober enough to know that he hurt her, bad. "I love you. I love you so much, and I want a family with you, you can't do this-"
"Get your shit," she interrupted him, pointing towards the bedroom. "And get out!"
"I'm not leaving till you let me explain!" His eyelashes formed black spikes, and his face was beet red. She was getting to him and she knew it.
"I trusted you." She let out a sob, looking him dead in the eyes. "I thought you loved me."
"I do! Oh my god, I do, I love you so much-" he ran up to her and fell to his knees at her feet. He wrapped his arms around her thighs, kissing the skin. "Please, I love you, don't go."
She collapsed in front of him, taking his face in her hands. "Five, fucking months." she said quietly, searching his eyes. She shook his face-not hard, but enough to let him know that she was near falling to pieces. To let her emotions flow into him, praying that he was feeling as broken as she was.
His eyes spoke for him-he really was sorry. But this had happened before. He'd slept with another girl, in their bed while she was away for work. She'd forgiven him. She didn't know why, but the way he pleaded made her believe that he would never do it again.
