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"When you were a child what did you want to be?" I asked.
The smog October morning was chilly. I hugged myself, the cashmere sweater warm yet itchy against my skin. My tongue didn't dare let the complain slip, John was eager to reveal the gift to me after his sessions on Mellow Yellow.
Our feet squished in the soft grass, mud crying beneath it. A bird squalled across the pond, lost to us in the dense fog. Trees were either empty of leaves or the homes of brown and dwindling leaves.
"Exactly what I am, a musician."
He looked at me after the words settled in my ears. He was a pale glory smothered in the dreary England countryside. His eyes were the brightest things on him. A cool blue swirling with the slightest of greens.
"That's not true," he said. "Naturally, I wanted to be a pianist." He pulled his cigarettes from his suit pocket. Even in the country he couldn't let go of his suits. "Then I got my first bass guitar." He muttered the words through the cigarette as he dug around his pockets.
I slipped a hand in his pants pocket and revealed his treasure. He thanked me with a small smile. We walked arm in arm after I lit his cigarette. I stared at the sharp yet delicate curve of his jaw. The flexing and softening of his muscles while he smoked. He turned to me, half delighted and half frightened. He choked a chuckle, smoke flying from his mouth like a dragon. As I touched his cheek, I wondered what mythical creature he'd be; he was far too kind to be a fire breathing beast despite his attempted replications.
My fingers grazed through his short blonde hair. I wanted to smile after ruining the neat way he combed it. He didn't see me as I stood in the doorway of his bedroom watching him comb his hair one way then the other, and the first way again. His parents stressed we didn't share a room when visiting. It wasn't proper; we were unwedded and twenty. If only they knew of the Thursdays and weekends I spent at his London apartment.
John laid an arm across my shoulders and puffed on his cigarette. "What did you think you'd be as an adult?"
"Oh, you know," I breathed, "just the typical things all girls wanted."
"Princess?"
"An archeologist."
His smile brightened the dreary morning.
We laid beneath a lemon tree; exchanging secrets, desires, kisses, and touches. The tree was browning like everything else around. His parents had forgotten to order the groundskeeper to bring it in for the season. The tree left an unnatural tangy scent as the wind whirled. My head spun along with the wind when his lips touched mine.
We were expected to change from our wrinkled and soiled clothing before dinner. Dinner was an event with the Baldwins. And tonight was special, though it'd only be Mister & Mrs. Baldwin, and John & I.
John's mother gasped at us when we strolled in the home that evening. She dusted him and let an answerless question slip. His sly eyes never met hers.
"Dear, how are things? Have you decided what you want to do? Before you know it, life flashes." His mother set the dinner table herself, giving the cook and maid the day off.
