July

Four

July 7th

            They were made of a cluster of fake diamonds, with little dangling pearls, hanging from wires encrusted with more gems. The earrings were fashionable, Paul supposed, though he didn’t really follow these trends.

            He moved them this way and that in his palm, suddenly very interested in the way they caught the light of the afternoon sun. If he was honest with himself, he only had the vaguest recollection of what Judy looked like. Blonde, maybe. Brown eyes?

            Paul decided he could always ask George. In terms of relationship advice, he was just about useless, but he was a good listener. Paul had found himself pouring everything out to the lad, one year younger no less, in the past year.

            And this was how he repaid Harrison—forgetting about him completely. Paul closed his eyes briefly in shame. Well, the Judy story could be good for a laugh. He pocketed the earrings again, and stood up, seeing Penny Lane winding lazily closer.

            A few minutes later he was hopping off the bus.

            “So,” someone said from behind him, and Paul turned to see George, leaning against the bus shelter, his arms crossed. His hair, still in its odd turbanlike shape, had grown a little, a few strands flopping down out of his quiff.

            Paul fumbled in his pocket for a minute, grinning sheepishly. He finally found one of the small objects and dangled it in front of George, a triumphant smile on his face.

*   *   *

            “So, you have no idea who she is,” George summed up. Paul nodded vigorously through a huge mouthful of chips.

            “I mean, she seemed fit over the phone—“

            George uncovered a pointy tooth in one of his rare smiles. “How can you know that?”

            Paul shrugged for an answer.

            “’Sides,” George continued. “She might be some—some criminal for all you know.”

            Paul collapsed in laughter, choking on his mouthful. George reddened slightly. For all the time he’d known Paul, he could never forget he was younger, and that popular Paul should never have been talking to him in the first place. He could never quite accept that sometimes Paul wasn’t laughing at him, but with him.

            “A criminal? Her?” he asked, small tears gathering in his eyes. “What, like she reverse stole her own earrings by giving them to me?”

            “Do you even know her surname?”

            “Probably Smith or Jones or something,” Paul said dismissively.

            “Hm.”