As the sun colours flowers | Paul McCartney - Beatles Fanfiction

29. Wait

"Life etches itself onto our faces
as we grow older,
showing our violence, excesses or kindnesses."

― Rembrandt Van Rijn

***

Octobe 1966

The thick cloud of smoke that filled the club after hours of everyone's chain-smoking made my eyes sting, but at that point, I was too drunk to care.

Somewhere during the night, I'd lost track of the old classmate that had invited me along. I was now left with a group of artists I didn't know, who were nice enough to share their cigarettes and other smokable rolls with me. We'd talked about everything from the New York art scene to the loss of meaning in art, which in itself meant something about the world in which we lived, as we concluded about half an hour ago.

I twirled a strand of hair around my finger as I tried to keep up with the conversation between a blonde woman and a man wearing a large hat, hardly keeping my balance as I sat on the armrest of an oversized couch in one of the corners. I didn't know which joke I was laughing at, but I was pleasantly numb and relaxed.

This club was apparently where everything was happening these days, and luckily my friend was also a friend of the owner. Or maybe a family member. Either way, we'd been able to get in. Force was to admit, the place was filled with the most fashionable crowd London had to offer. And someone like me shouldn't be here, but nobody seemed to mind, so I chatted and laughed like there was no other place on earth I'd rather be.

I swirled the drink I was holding and accepted another cigarette that the man beside me offered. He wore purple-rimmed glasses and a psychedelic patterned shirt tucked in velvet trousers that matched his glasses. His hair was dark and shiny even in the dim light of the place, and he had a look that should've made me think twice before accepting anything from him, but, so what? I was young and free, I might as well take advantage of it. So I smiled down at him as he approached a lit match to me, and I breathed in the soothing tobacco smoke.

"Fancy getting out of here, love?" he asked.

I glanced at his hand resting on my thigh and tilted my head. Had it been there long? Hard to say. But as much as the offer was tempting, I refused politely, thanking him. I'd already recently indulged a few too many times and didn't feel like waking up in a strange bed the day before an important meeting. He looked slightly disappointed and immediately got up and left. Maybe he thought sharing his cigarettes with me for the past hour would've been convincing enough. He just wasn't tempting enough for me to leave just yet.

Being surrounded by noisy, drunk and high people was the only thing that calmed my mind these days. Because as soon as the music stopped and I found myself confronted with my own thoughts, there was one thing that never left my mind, and I was getting tired of crying over someone who didn't give a damn about me.

Going out, meeting people and getting drunk was the new fashionable thing to do anyway.

I finished my cigarette and drink, and feeling happy and lightheaded, I headed for the bar. I quickly realized that I had critically misjudged the amount of alcohol I'd been served, because as soon as my feet hit the ground, the world started to look funny, warped, upside down, as if I was floating in a foggy pool full of dancing starfish.

I reached out a hand to steady myself, and as I did, an arm wrapped around my waist, steadying me and succeeding in what my currently poor balance couldn't. I turned my head to take in the generous soul, and it was the man from whom I'd just declined the offer for getting out of here a few minutes ago.