Got To Be Good-looking ('cause he's so hard to see)

~44~

John

I need a doctor. Sometimes I have to piss three times a night, other nights never. Tonight's lady's night every time I get up, wake up- I have to go.

I told her I was getting, sorry, going to get a divorce and she's worrying about it being a future occurrence or a done deed, what's the big diff.

Oh yea, she's shagging a married man, bummer.

But unhappily married, that counts in the big scheme of things surely.

Not if she doesn't know that, you dimwit weirdo jerko.

Washing my hands, soap and water, hygiene is king kiddies, I shuffle back staring down at the now dozing guitar girl. What is she to me?

Anything? Nothing? Everything?

Ok so if I was on a deserted island and could only take one girl, cause it's greedy if I took three, who or would it be.....

Cue ticking clock on game show twenty seconds starting now.......15. but I wanna take three........12. nah three girls that's crazy and no alcohol, double nope...............9 and a half.- maybe I just take no one, just my guitar...7. the strings might break, toss guitar.........5. hurry up.....3. Clare....2. Guitar girl.....1. this one right here, sound asleep.

There you have it folks John wins the girl but alas she doesn't know it or him.

There's a song here somewhere I just need to pick up a pen. She won't mind if I use her journal, clean page, no peaking of course.

Sitting on the terrace with a fag and torch I slip through the pages quietly to the back of the book, oops, journal. It's got a tatty leather outer cover and she's got crap jammed in between leather and journal- I snoop... paper, tissue, tiny broken pencil, letter....... No peaking John, but just a quick three seconds blink and I miss it wouldn't hurt.

Should I? Why not.

I turn around and check for ninja Clare, she's as quiet as a church mouse when the mood takes her.

Clear.

3.. 2... 1...

Gold Record, fuck what the actual fuck.

"What are you doing"

She's behind me. So secretively she sneaks, hang on I'm the sneaky one. I slip the missive back in the crack in the leather and she's on me in seconds but I'm faster, book is open love heart doodle in place, top of page.

"Oh, was going to leave you a love letter for your later enjoyment" Smooth Lennon, lying bastard, gold record, no way.

"Hey that's my book"

'Journal, your journal Clare. I know, no harm done, do you want the bloody poem or not"

"Letter, you said letter"

"Poem, letter, both"

"You're up to something, you're scratching your nose, you do that when you're not telling the whole truth"

"NO, I do not!" I huffed and scratched my snout "Do you want the poem?"

"Yes please mister cranky pants" dazzling cupid lips flutter wide.

"It's very ummm..."

She's stumbling on adjectives and accolades for my sonnet, poem, whatever the hell I wrote.

"...ummm, teenage boy-like"

She cringed and I rounded on her as she sat gawking down at the heartfelt sentimental crap I wrote in three minutes while she had a shower.