and I love her [beatles]

jl • STRANGE BIRD

I love you, always.
Time is nothing.

— audrey niffenegger,
the time traveler's wife

The room is dimly lit and cigarette smoke is thick in the air. Chairs are scattered about and wires lay across the concrete floor. Her eyes follow them up to where they're connected to amps and guitars. Empty beer bottles are everywhere; it looks like they've just finished band practice.

The room is quiet except for the sound of a single guitar, it's notes ringing out. It sounds like a melancholy tune, lazily plucked and not completely on beat. John sits in the corner, face stern as he stares at the floor. He's in a mood.

"It's been months," he says without looking at her. She jumps a little in surprise, unaware that he had even noticed her presence. Even as her feet pad across the floor, he doesn't turn to her. Her heart sinks. It's not like she blames him. Their situation isn't very fair, it never has been. John has never been at fault for that, only her.

"Has it?" she asks gently. When he doesn't respond, she tries again, "I'm sure the visits will grow shorter."

The following silence begins to scare her. There's something else he isn't telling her, something more jarring than their time spent apart. It always upsets him when he doesn't see her but he always showed some understanding. He had always been happy to see her.

"John," she says, voice weak from her uncertainty. "What's wrong?"

He's tired of waiting for her, she thinks. He's tired of this, of them.

Finally, his head rolls to the side and he looks up at her from his seat. There's no light in his eyes, no expression on his face. He's hiding from her, wearing a stony mask that's impossible to read. It's his best defense.

"You were wearing a wedding ring," he says flatly. "Before."

"Oh." Blood rushes and her cheeks burn; there's no reason she should feel embarrassed, she reminds herself. She doesn't want to have this conversation with John, assure him that it had been nothing, because it wasn't nothing was it? He saw her and she was married. But to who?

"Curious about the lucky fella?" John asks as if he could read her thoughts. He could always read her so well. He watches her for a moment before his eyes fall back to the guitar in his hands. "I couldn't tell ya if I wanted to," he admits bitterly. "Another one of your secrets, I suppose."

"You can't be mad at me for something I haven't done yet," she finally exclaims. His gaze shoots back to hers and he sees her building frustration, sees her eyes shining with unshed tears. Her hands are clenched at her sides as she says, "I don't know any more than you do, John."

He sniffs. "Who's fault is that?" he asks.

It's a difficult relationship, her's and John's. Whenever she does see him, she can never know exactly where they stand, she never knows exactly what they are. It's always just been enough to be with him, in whatever way possible. But this isn't doing it for her. He's back to ignoring her and she can't stand it; she turns on her heel and walks away.

His head snaps up.

"Where are you going?" he asks.

"I don't know how long I have," she says, voice shaking with anger, "but I'm not spending it here fighting with you." Suddenly, she feels his hand on her wrist stopping her and pulling her back to him. Turning, she bumps into him and he steadies her by placing his hands on her shoulders.