Soon, My Friend (Currently Editing)

Yoko

Room service had come to our suite with steaming, fresh pizza when we came back. Harry had ordered vegetarian fill with some organic dressings. It smelled like a bloody pizza restaurant in there, mixed with Harry's Tom Ford perfume and the scent of the tour bus.

As we ate, we sat on the bed and watched Annie Hall on the telly, but the audio was muted. During the lobster-cooking scene, Harry laughed sadly.

"Besides Zayn's hilarious outburst when it comes to the cock blocking earlier... What was the thing you said - I think you told that journalist with the linen shorts - about you leaving your hotel room once, and.. falling asleep outside in the hall only wearin' a gown?" I eventually asked Harry.

Harry swallowed with a little embarrassed smile, saying: "It's, uhm.. I forgot my shoes in, like, in another room and I had to, like, fetch 'em back. But when I'd left my own room I got myself locked out. And... After a few minutes, I just.. fell asleep. I think - I think it was in Chicago, yeah. And I've had some very tasty risotto."

I raised my chin laughing silently, my mouth was open. I imagined him sleeping there in his gown, hotel staff casually walking past him not sure what to believe.

I enjoyed this thing we had going. I couldn't grasp what it was, but neither could I stop smiling.

We were bantering and teasing each other, laughing. And that carefree laughter - it was that kind of laugh you're a litte scared of; the one you can't control - and you end up forgetting what was funny in the first place, you just laugh at the maniac laughter itself.

Perhaps it was because we finally ate (and it was pizza), and Harry had decided to wear a classic black fedora hat.

And so I imagined him as fifty-two years old, and I felt safe.

I would whinge: "You speak sooooo slowly - get to the point before the paint dries," or he would complain: "You speak way too fast."

He would say he didn't understand my head, that it was so confusing; he would say that I could state one thing about Diane Keaton and in the same sentence question how cats experience time or what they think of the moon.

"How on earth does your brain work?" he would ask, but he was not asking me.

And I thought that was kind of funny. Because his mind was always frazzled, and I didn't get it either. It was the most bittersweet thing.

I remember he complained about being too tall - his feet sticking out at the foot of the bed. Too tall for most duvets. And then he changed the subject under less than a second; speaking of how irritated he could get when writing fynny and not funny at times.

"How the hell does your brain work?" I would ask, but I was not asking him.

Sitting on the bed next to Harry, I zoned out thinking of this. Secretly glancing at him, eating my fourth slice of pizza. I had dressing on my face and oil on my fingers - I wiped it all off on my bare thighs.

"So. What.. exactly happened to you during the.. interviews earlier?" Harry asked at last.

I had been waiting for it.

He glanced at me with his eyes widened, his nostrils flared; holding back an innocent giggle.

I raised my brows and replied: "I dunno - what happened to you before the interviews - that breakdown of yours?"

"Don't you try changing the subject, love, this isn't about me."

Oh, yes, Harry. It is.

I shifted awkwardly, shrugging, didn't trust myself to say something clever over the huge lump that was growing in my throat.