Carnival of Light || Paul McCartney/Beatles

23. Paris: Part 3

Carnival of Light

23.

I woke up the next morning with the sun again pouring in through the window and Paul once again pressed up behind me, holding me close and breathing into my hair. It was still odd to wake up with him this way, but thrilling too, just like being able to go for dinner with him and kiss him whenever I felt like it. I laid there for ages, feeling the gentle rise and fall of his chest against my back. I was quite proud of myself for being present in the moment with him, and not dwelling on what would come after or what was happening elsewhere.

It took a great deal of effort to untangle Paul's arm from me so I could turn toward him and press my cheek against his chest. He was so warm and he smelled good—sweaty, but I liked it. It reminded me of the night before. Instead of feeling desperate for him, I just got to enjoy him because we were allowed to be together. It felt like making love to someone and not quite being able to believe you got to. Perhaps it was the temporary nature of all this seeping in. It was always there, hanging in the near distance, a shadow pushing us closer together. Or maybe we just fancied each other far more than was sensible.

I ran my fingers up Paul's bare chest, observing him in the morning light. His face was very peaceful and young in sleep. He'd said he was twenty-four but that he felt one hundred sometimes, and I could see that. The snippets of conversations I'd been hearing him have with John and Brian spoke of an untold amount of pressure on all of them, which seemed to be a constant in their lives. The backlash in America was just one part of a larger tapestry they had to contend with. You could see the difference in his face as he slept.

Paul shifted in his sleep, his arm finding its way around my back. I felt almost voyeuristic watching him wake up—a deep breath, a sigh, his eyebrows raising before he opened one eye to look at me, a sleepy smile spreading across his face.

"You are very cute sometimes," I told him. "Not all the time, but sometimes."

Paul laughed and rubbed the heel of his hand over his eyes. "Ta, love," he said, his voice thick with sleep. "I do me best."

I pressed my lips together to hide a smile, which became nearly impossible when he ran his fingers through my hair, his eyes heavy but very striking.

"How d'you manage to look so gorgeous first thing in the morning, hmm?" he said, so smoothly, delivering charming one-liners even when he'd only just woken up.

I smiled. "That's very kind."

Paul laughed, sounding sleepy.

"Thank you, Paul, that's very kind," he teased me, putting on a posh, stuffy BBC-style voice, an evolution of the posh falsetto he used to tease me with. He grinned crookedly as he ruffled his hair and smoothed it down.

I laughed. "What am I meant to say?"

"I dunno," he pulled me closer. "You're just funny. It kills me."

I pressed my face against his chest, hiding a silly smile as he stroked my hair. I kissed him and sighed, and once I felt less silly I lifted myself up to reach for a cigarette on the bedside table. Paul propped himself up on a second pillow and lit my fag for me, and then set an ashtray on the bed where I could reach it.

He kissed me when I passed him the cigarette.

"Are you gonna run off to do more errands today?" He asked, one eyebrow raising as he took a drag.

I shrugged and propped myself up on my elbow so I could brush a messy lock of black hair off his forehead. "It's your last day with them and you won't see John for months. You'd better make the most of it."