Mid-December, 1970.
Peter & May's home.

"They were still in the shop?"

"It's only been a month,"

"I know, it's just...it's a popular album," May said, holding the door open for Gina to enter.

Gina and May, having had the day-off, decided to spend an afternoon together. They sat on the floor in the living room, pigging out on junk food and lemonade. They talked, and talked, and...talked, but this was not the sole purpose of Gina's visit. No, the real reason was perched only steps away from May, and she tried desperately to not cast attention to it. She made several excuses: going to the bathroom, or making more popcorn, or distracting Gina with work gossip. Anything, everything.

Until, Gina smiled knowingly, seeing through her friend's firm disregard, "Aren't you curious, May?" she gestured to the plastic bag on the table.

May finally acknowledged the intrusive, burdening thing with a sheepish glance.

Well, now or never...

Defeated, she nodded, "Okay,"

Gina carefully removed the vinyl disc from the album sleeve, adjusting the record player. May studied the black and white cover: the trees, the clear sky, the trimmed grass, the gnomes...

Let me in here,
I know I've been here.

May had avoided listening, purchasing, or having anything to do with All Things Must Pass. She had tried to follow the advice that, indeed, all things must pass, whether it be a friend, or sadness, or a lover. However, Gina had been right. She was curious—beyond curious, itching in fact. And so, they stayed quiet, allowing the euphonic, delicate sounds to sweep over them. May liked the slide guitar, the spiritual quest to "really want to see you, Lord," and the rich, velvety guide of his voice within the melody. More lemonade, more listening, and more good feelings as they turned over to side two. But when she heard those well known words...those words meant for her, she froze. May sat up, flipping over the album sleeve, scanning through the track list until..."Let It Down". Worried, Gina asked what was wrong, but an answer couldn't form as the record slipped from her hold.

Gina's concerns were miles away from May's ears, for suddenly she wasn't in her living room anymore, but with George, as he shared this tune with her for the first time on his acoustic.

May couldn't listen anymore.

She stood, abruptly lifting the needle off the record. His music vanished into the atmosphere, deadened and mute, but the memories inside her head didn't. She stole one of Gina's cigarettes from the pack, lit a match, wishing to forget. Like many times before, George was a nagging pressure upon her heart, and she leapt at any chance of escape. The nearest destination was the window, and May rushed over, peering out onto the garden.

Gina watched on sympathetically, "Have you seen him lately?" her voice was soft and cautious.

"No," she took a sharp and quick puff of her cig, "I told you—it's over," letting the smoke go, and he was soon let go from her mind.

The sun had faded, a darkness approaching—it was to rain soon, and she needed to take the washing off the line.

"I need away from here," May said, facing Gina.

"I hear San Francisco's good,"

She beamed, a plan forming in her mind, "We'll save up, go next year."

****

April 6, 1969.

The days blurred, nights forgotten.

George was so distant, so unnerved, he stumbled into the meeting at Apple Office on Sunday afternoon. He thought he would be late as his morning had been occupied by a photoshoot at his home in Esher, but he soon noticed that John had not arrived either. George scanned the room, unfocused and absentminded to particular details, until he spotted Steffie standing at the drinks table in the corner. His heart dropped with unease, continuing to weigh him down as he approached her.

Steffie welcomed him with a smile, "Need something, George?"

"Where's May?" he questioned, voice low, though his body was burning high.

"I haven't seen her for a few days,"

George, too, had not seen May for awhile, their time commanded by pressing activities. He and Pattie were fined 250 pounds for the cannabis bust on March 31st, and on April 3rd, George participated in an interview for BBC's The World At One. Alternatively, May's commitments were private rather than public, mostly attending martial duties, such as church rehearsal. George expected and, as always, was enthusiastic to see her today—May usually served drinks during band meetings with Allen Klein. However, this unanticipated change of plans had him churning inside.

Steffie offered again, "Any tea, George?"

He declined, taking a seat at the round table. He felt stares follow his movements—his sluggish, sullen demeanour—but George had lost willpower to acknowledge those concerned. Suspicions continued to gnaw at his core, moving to his stomach, nestled within the blood. He was slowly losing it, but George could not deny: something was definitely wrong. Conversation ebbed and flowed around him, insignificant whispers that never made sense nor captured attention, like the dreary yellow glazed beneath the ashy grey clouds. The sun had tried to burst through the overcast sky for most of the afternoon, the bland weather to reflect the remaining day: disappointing, depressing, and draining.

George slumped in his chair, as Steffie brought over another cuppa for Paul. More minutes passed, more impatient sighs, more trouble as the sky darkened to a foreboding charcoal. The clock ticked by as he smoked a cigarette Ringo offered a moment ago. Paul was complaining—well, when was he ever not complaining? A decision had been made that "Get Back" was to be the single, and scheduled to be released late next week. The problem was that the demo mix by George Martin and Glyn Johns was terrible, and therefore Paul wanted to work on it at Olympic Sound Studios. The acetate disc was in a paper bag on the desk, ready for remixing, but this delayed meeting was considerably wasting production time.

The door opened, and heads turned—it was Neil Aspinall. He asked for a coffee from Steffie, then sat down. 

Ringo passed the ashtray over, and George tapped his cigarette twice, as the hour grew stale. This was to be the first meeting since proposing a short-term arrangement: Allen Klein was to be The Beatles manager, while Lee and John Eastman were to serve as attorneys. This was a step forward in trying to maintain harmony, as well as maintain the group, even if just for an album longer.

Lee Eastman checked his watch, "Should we start without the Lennon's?"

Allen Klein refused.

"He's gettin' out the bag," Paul suggested, half serious.

The joke was in reference to the newlywed's demonstration of 'bagism' at a press conference in Vienna on March 31. For "total communication" or peace or whatever it was, George wished to hide in a bag at this moment, too.

The long awaited couple rushed into the room in a fatigued daze.

John acknowledged Allen, taking a seat next to Yoko, "Hi Al,"

The meeting delved into finding ways to take full control of Northern Songs. The Beatles currently held 27% of publishing, and more than one million pounds was required to increase this to 50%. At the same time, however, the group was interested in buying NEMS Enterprises. Sure, baby, they're rich men, but somehow money was being lost far too quickly, and therefore, reductions had to be made. These reductions were "necessary" Allen ensured, and had been applied to Apple Corps in ways of employee cuts and minimising studio and office expenses.

Paperwork flooded the desk, and George hadn't even realised. He had been distracted by John, who looked to be full on junk. The publicised honeymoon, extensive travel, and press engagements had taken an obvious toll, but John appeared more weary and disorientated than having simply missed a few nights sleep. Instead, Yoko was taking the business reigns, reading over the piles of sheets.

George decided he should take a glance, too.

Some of it was clear, some utter nonsense. He fought back a yawn as he turned the page, his weariness immediately evaporating as his sight rested onto a particular name.

****

Mid-February, 1971.

May reached for another tissue, blowing her nose. She could barely think, barely breathe, her sinuses were so congested. She lay on the couch, television on though the sound muted, trying to catch up on sleep, but outside noise seemed magnified: the neighbour's dog, an aeroplane above, birds chirping. The holiday to San Francisco had been worth it, even if May had picked up a nasty flu on the way home. She'd had fun sightseeing, being on a plane for the first time, and updating her wardrobe—all there was left to do now was feel absolutely miserable, as May gently rubbed her throbbing head. She'd barely eaten, bites of buttered toast here and there; fluids was all she could stomach right now. The day dragged on, turning into afternoon, fever worsening.

A mild thump on the front door interrupted her restless doze. May ignored it, eyes still closed. A few minutes later, another knock, and then she suddenly remembered—Gina had promised she would stop by and bring comfort food. She struggled to sit up, an ache piercing through her skull, vision slightly blurred, and she clutched onto a pillow until the unsettling spell ceased. May managed to stand, walking—well, it was a lethargic wander, really—to the door. She was unprepared for the flash of sunlight when opening the door, her features grimaced, a small groan emitted at the unpleasant shock. May rubbed her eyes, the patches of darkness slowly disappearing as she adjusted to the brightness.

"A horrible sight, am I?"

****

"George?"

A hand firmly clutched onto his white jumper, lightly shaking his shoulder. He hadn't registered the voice calling him, until he saw the rings.

He had another check of her name on the sheet. 

"May is being..." the hard-hitting reality hardened in George's mouth, immobile, just like his posture.

He'd unapologetically interrupted Neil, but he had to confirm this wasn't fiction.

George's voice was eventually found, drifting into the air, wispy and weightless, "She has to go?"

"As I said, to get Northern Songs, some expenses have to be...sacrificed," Allen explained, taking a puff of his cigar.

Sacrificed? Was this some kind of ancient ritual? George thought they had a deal—May would continue working unless another complaint was made. Perhaps, he realised, she had not improved.

Allen continued, "Her salary is way too high,"

His world was crumbling for a second time since the start of the meeting. Knocked speechless as he lost all sense of direction, swamped by feelings he couldn't quite control, yet couldn't quite show either. Instead, George was pulled under, submissive and paralysed to his hazy surroundings: the indistinct exchanges, muffled sounds, fleeting glances. The panic crept upon him like a fog, and he was soon stuck in the thick of it, unsure of when he'd be able to decipher up ahead again. George's gaze strayed to the window; the breeze had picked up, rattling the glass.

Lee Eastman flicked through the notes, "310?" he confirmed, and when said aloud, the amount sounded ridiculous.

The slight humiliation bumped a nerve within, causing George to scoff, "Maybe she makes good fucking tea,"

Silence. Tension had swallowed the room, and there was nothing to do but sigh because suddenly it had turned into one of those meetings—an uncomfortable, frustrated, fragile atmosphere that always resulted in The Beatles being somewhat fractured by the end.

Ringo tried to support his friend from the obvious distress by suggesting, "Can we lower her pay, Allen?"

Neil chimed in next, "We dunno know if the NEMS deal will follow through,"

And, followed lastly by Lee, "Let's not be too rash, Allen."

All efforts were quickly dismissed however, "If you go my way, it saves Apple more money—and with your current situation, money is what you need. Trust me, George. This is the best option,"

Trust—such a strong word. Who could he trust? The word buzzed around like a fly—it had no meaning to him anymore. George became caught up in the spinning reality: his ego, his beliefs, his desires. Hadn't this been the plot of many stories: that one's head and heart become completely torn on what was at all right when engulfed in emotions. Sure, part of him realised the necessity of breaking things off with May; it was the moral path, the mature path.

But then...there was the other side—the side of him that was unmistakably in love with her.

And there could be things about love so irrational, so misguiding, and so powerful. George had fallen ill to that love bug just too darn quickly...what had The Supremes once sang? The love bug gone bit me, didn't mean for him to get me... And in these strained, rapid seconds, George was stricken once again by a familiar fever, his blood, his love, and his anger ignited.

"We have enough kitchen staff—this isn't a major change," Allen assured.

"This is a major change, and I'm not for it," George stood up.

There had been a time, long ago, when they were tight—when they were mates. When they fought for, not with each other. But people grow, the mind wanders, priorities change, and so can the friendship. The group was still not completely over the presence of Yoko, so like hell they would give support to George's fling—well, besides Ringo, of course.

His heart sank observing the scene unfold, and unable to intervene: Lee scribbled words onto a page, Ringo searched his pack for another cigarette—it was the last one—John stared out the window, a glassy vacancy across his pupils...and Paul? Well, Paul had not returned his gaze for at least ten minutes. George was alone in this battle, clutching onto a promise to which he signed his name on the dotted line, clutching onto the cliched male fantasy of screwing a schoolgirl—basically, clutching at fucking straws just to prove...something, anything.

"I thought we made a deal," George weakly replied.

"A deal?" Lee enquired, "I wasn't aware of this deal,"

Paul quickly nudged Lee's side, mumbling into his ear. Yoko was whispering to an uninterested John. More and more secrets cramped the room, the oxygen...the love.

"Things change, and Apple can't support this girl of your's anymore," Allen mumbled this explanation with the cigar still in his mouth, smoke encircling him, "The decision has been made, George,"

His stare finally linked with Paul's, the last stormy months silently exchanged: the dissatisfaction with each other, the disapproval of May, the business betrayals, the forgotten friendship. And through it all, surfaced her voice: "Paul was right,". But, of course, George would never admit that he agreed.

George impulsively, and for the last time, reached out to "John..." he whispered, tone shaky, and they locked eyes.

In the throes of drug withdrawal, John could care less, "300 quid is alotta bread,"

George never intended for this outcome when making the deal. He'd only been greedy for one thing—a girl that made him feel good.

But, this was the relativity of life—what goes up must come down.

And although he'd had such passion, such understanding, and such highs were her, on the other side of the coin, the lows, the disagreements, and the consequences were to be much worse.

The laws of action and reaction were in motion, his karma already showing. George had committed the deed, and now, the natural world was responding accordingly. He'd lost guidance and disappeared onto the wrong path, he'd lost trust in his marriage and friendships, and, in the end, he'd lost the girl anyway. George's help to the Shepards was being terminated, his relationship with May was turning sour, and, pretty soon, he was to be exhausted of all energy to stay in this group.

It was over—there was nothing more he could do, and he had to begin letting go.

 ****

"A horrible sight, am I?"

She tensed when hearing...him.

Her first thought was: why today of all days? May's gaze glided over his figure, but with her senses already overwhelmed, she didn't take much in, details remaining vague.

"George," her voice was raspy, unsteady. She blamed the flu, because her heart was not ready to admit he still made her flutter with nerves. "I never thought..."

For months May had fantasised of seeing him, talking with him, kissing him...but now to finally have him here, and doubt replaced desire, eagerness becoming uncertainty. It dawned on her that, deep down, she never would be ready to handle the love that was George for a second time—no matter how desperately she wished.

Her grip tightened on the door knob, "I wish you had wrote. I ain't well,"

May tried to coax him into leaving, but George was unfazed and annoyingly persistent, "Aren't ye' gonna let me in?"

She hesitated, reminded of a few months back when hearing his record for the first time, and those words: let me in here, I know I've been here...

This wasn't just some song anymore—she couldn't turn him off if listening became too difficult. No, he stood in front of her, refusing to be shut out. So, if he wanted in so badly, May accepted the challenge and allowed him through, closing the door after George stepped into the house.

"I've come to 'seek' you—isn't that what your postcard said?" George reminded, and her cheeks slightly flared up, but once again she denied that he was the cause of it. He smiled teasingly, "Soundin' poetic and all, May,"

She had been on holiday when sending him the postcard, and of course, when on holiday, one's mind tends to let loose. However, the confidence she felt a fortnight ago vaporised, along with the moisture in her throat, and was substituted by a diagnosis worse than a blocked nose—lots and lots of insecurity. And, if anything was to be clear within May's currently foggy brain, it was to not be that demure seventeen year old George once knew.

So, she changed the subject, "Want something? Honey n' tea?"

"Sure," he nodded.

Unfortunately, a couple steps forward and May lost her footing—it must have been the rush of movement, the rush of memories, the rush of her heart as she felt George beside her. May reached out and touched the wall, the events of the last few minutes a constant impairment upon her sight. The fear of being an embarrassment was long gone, for the painful, building pressure in her skull was more important, and she tried to calm her shaky breathing.

George held her shoulder, and the contact made May briefly woozy, "Have a smoke, sit down," he gently spoke, and although she wanted to, she wasn't quite ready to look into his eyes yet, "I'll get the tea,"

She watched him walk past, down the hallway, "Kitchen's on the left,"

He was probably right—she did need a cigarette. But the thought of lighting up with such a sore throat seemed like torture. No, May decided, the tea will do me better. She sat on the couch, noticing how messy the house was, and hastily hid her used tissues underneath the cushions, brushing crumbs off the sofa onto the floor. May turned off the T.V., sudden silence enhancing the light murmur in the kitchen, as George sifted through the many drawers, presumably finding the teaspoons. She wanted to call out, to help, but her throat hurt like hell...well, everything was hurting. A persistent lull swept over her body, craving to surrender, as her eyes grew heavy.

May was soon stirred by a soft light cast upon her face. Blinking, and she saw George opening the blinds, steaming cups of tea placed on the table. She rubbed her palm across her dressing gown, wiping off the drool which had puddled from snoozing with her head in her hand. She watched him, a little stunned, a little confused, and a little attracted, as he browsed the bookshelf beside the telly. She couldn't believe that after so long, and after so much heartache, she'd see him again.

George glanced at the stack of records on the floor, as did May, and unease immediately filled her.

"You bought the album?"

May had listened to All Things Must Pass a couple of times since last year, but the attempts always led to the same fate—missing George more.

He began skimming through the record pile, "What did you think?"

May couldn't talk, stuck in some kind of trance. She sipped her tea instead, a welcoming soothe to her throat as she swallowed.

George focused on her, a small turn of his lips, "Not up for a chat, are ye'?"

He took a seat on the armchair adjacent the couch, unbuttoning his dark blue jacket.

"Hm, what was it that you once said?" she mused, "Don't bother me?"

His smile grew even more, and bliss or him or something got the better of May, because she had to smile, too. She had forgotten how easy George could have an effect on her...and she had also forgotten how difficult it was to think about their past, as it fluttered across her eyes in watery patches. May blinked away the arising memories, adjusting her gown, the tie wrapping around her fingers in a nervous knot.

George drank his tea, looking around, "This is a nice home,"

"I'm not in it too much," she answered, her tone slightly stiff and husky. She needed more tea—and a helluva lot more honey—but her muscles slackened with lethargy, unable to find strength for anything, "I work with Gina at a cafe most weekdays. Though I've had so much time off lately, I doubt I still have a job,"

The telephone started ringing, though May didn't move—half because she didn't wish to leave him, the other from complete laziness.

"They callin' ta let you go?"

She smiled, waiting until the ringing stopped before replying, "Was probably my mother,"

May wished she hadn't brought up her parents because the mood turned, the atmosphere blanketed in unspoken, chilly flashbacks. She roughly tugged the tie of her robe around her knuckles as suppressed images, feelings, and touches surfaced.

George cleared his throat, "How are your folks, anyway?"

May sighed, stare anchored to the floor, "Dad's not well. He has bad kidneys or somethin'," her head lifted, looking at him, softly revealing, "Doctor's don't know for sure,"

"Me mother was sick last year," George said, his attention drifting to the window opposite. The faint sun glimmered across his deep brown eyes, as he added in a fragile whisper, "She passed,"

"Oh, I'm sorry,"

The trauma of early 1969 struck her like a wave, and instead of signalling for help, she let herself become toppled by the salty surge. The good times coated May's skin in a shallow rinse that she could easily rid. Alternatively, the bad times flooded her, swimming in a guilt that she could never rise above. She mourned the vehement ecstasy of him that had felt unfairly eternal, yet proved to erupt into a destructive downpour. May had assumed the way to cope, the way in which to forgive herself, George, and her parents, would be revealed if she addressed the problem. But with George finally in the room, and to confront—or even acknowledge—their past to him was a daunting leap.

"You're working on the garden?"

May's eyes wandered to the window, where George now stood.

A faint mumble was her sign of approval, because if she was to move her lips, she was scared of the kinds of secrets, insults, or feelings would be regretfully spilled.

He nodded, "Roses need more watering,"

She got too carried away with the past, hanging onto a dream that in the end left her tired and withered. May plummeted into the murky moments she had buried inside—those few minutes she had spent yelling with him that had turned out to be their last encounter. Well, she wasn't yelling with, rather, she had been yelling at him, and May was soon drowning in a manic whirlwind of frustration at just the brief reminder. Her world collapsed with dizzying truths and hazy reflections, just like the shape of him knelt down in front of her. May's heartbeat raced in a panicked quiver, the tumultuous torrent that once encased her rippling into a frail droplet that slid down her cheek. Her chest tightened as George brushed the damp sorrow away, a vivid flash of care crossing his face as he felt her forehead.

"Luv, you're burnin' up," in an instant George's touch faded, as she turned her head away from him, "You need rest, May," the concern was a stressful rasp in his tone.

She was slowly sinking back into those old tingles of infatuation. May was immersed in the possibilities, uncertain of what they were doing. Could they be what they once were? Would it be worth re-kindling their relationship...even if just for one last time? Sure, it might be nice, but as The Beatles rightfully sang, "Ob-la-di, ob-la-da, life goes on," and timing was, once again, bad. May battled the struggling wheezes and stressful fluster, as her hopes wafted above—appearing attainable, though never to be.

George soothed, "Just, breathe. You'll be fine," he playfully swiped his finger along her chin, smiling, "Seasons change, and the roses will grow back,"

May wanted to forget him—to move on, to be stronger. And yet, she did not reject his comfort, as he caressed her dry, dark copper hair. Or as he alleviated the fretful inflammation upon her clammy skin. Or as she inhaled his familiar cedar and sandalwood scent.

George somehow took away the conflict, the strife, and the ache he had helped create.

His hand returned to May's cheek, his thumb grazing over her bottom lip, cherry-red and pouty. She was hunched over, broken and passive as her anxious breaths shifted into calming, pleasurable sighs. George couldn't deny, oh God, he could not deny just how much he had missed her. He had almost thrown away her Golden Gate Bridge postcard in late January, as it had arrived during an unhappy period in his life. He reconsidered missing the opportunity when re-reading her message one night, beside his plate of heated leftovers in an empty house and collapsing marriage: I'll be home February 10. Come seek your June...

George hid the postcard in his bedroom drawer, building the courage to finally 'seek' her today. The hesitation remained with him whilst stepping into her house, but as George reunited with those hazel eyes—though tainted with a drowsy redness—he realised she was the same woman he'd met not so long ago. He rediscovered the trust, the connection, the want, and similar to 1969, fear ruled May, for when she placed her hand on his arm, it was riddled with nervous contradictions. She wasn't ready in committing to a decision, rejection lingering on her tongue, yet her heart galloping at the chance of having him back in her life.

May wanted him to leave, but, alas, she heard herself fumble...

"Please, stay?" she whispered, "Just a little longer,"

His reply was interrupted by a knock at the door.

Confusion clouded May's thoughts, only clearing when George reluctantly removed his hand from her cheek.

"That'll be Gina," she explained, having trouble standing up, for which he helped her, "You stay in the kitchen. I'll be fine to get it,"

"You sure?"

"Mm, go,"

May re-tied her gown, ensuring the grey, woollen fabric decently covered her chest. Gina greeted her with a bright smile, giving her a tupperware container of homemade chicken soup. Gina offered to come in, complete housework for May, but she hastily declined, "I don't want you to catch this." Gina accepted the excuse with a wary smile, saying goodbye.

May closed the door, resting her forehead on the wooden surface. She needed a few extra seconds to be alone and find a way to control her continual stray into these involuntary, feverish flushes when around George. Sure, the cause might have been the flu, or dehydration, or exhaustion. But, more than likely, the cause was the hot thrill of forbidden love.

She didn't hear him approach, registering his presence by the faintest pressure on her arm. May turned, her back instantly brushed up against the door, for George was close—so temptingly close. Just when she had needed space, May was cornered—literally, and figuratively. She would've laughed, had George not snuck in that look. The look that had her kneeling in the bathroom stalls at Apple Corps, the look that made her be a giddy fool, the look that confirmed: I'm not over you, yet.

And May knew how easy it would be to tumble back into that role—right now, here, leant upon the door. To let lust win and be in his arms again, have her fingers entwined in his long, brunette hair, stoke his beard as he kissed her neck. To have his touch sneak past her gown, onto her thigh, as she tried to strip him of his denim clothing.

Too, too easy it would be, and yet, it was all too, too soon.

May knew they needed time, they needed forgiveness, and more than anything, they needed clarity.

"Peter comes home at 4, and I haven't started dinner yet,"

George took a deep breath, eyes cast down, "Can't we talk, June?"

It was the first time he had used his nickname for her, and slight chills dragged down her spine.

"Why?" May questioned, and his gaze flicked up to her, "You made it clear in your letter—you haven't changed your mind about us," when the air thickened in a cold sensitivity—which neither initially dared to penetrate—the wait shrivelled her impatience, and she harshly confirmed, "Well, am I wrong?"

George glanced away, a defeated sigh escaping, "No, I still think it's best..."

He couldn't finish the thought, torn between revealing nothing or revealing everything.

May cleared her throat, bolting from the awkward stalemate, "Well, like I said, Peter is home soon,"

She moved past George, fleeing into the kitchen. As she stored the chicken soup in the fridge, filled the sink with water, and set aside the vegetables to be washed, May contemplated the truth she was running from: that to be with George again would be impossible, and if to ever come true, would probably destroy her. She wasn't allowed enough time to contemplate as George soon joined her, watching as she added carrots into the cold water. He'd been quiet, overly guarded.

"What did you think of the record?"

He asked so softly, so timidly, she nearly didn't catch his words.

When the silence persisted, George clarified, "Of Let it Be,"

"Oh," May tried to hide a cheeky smile, "Don't be offended, but I remember it sounding better in the studio,"

They shared a laugh, and he disclosed, "We had some problems with production,"

May finished the vegetables and added more water, the sink packed with cut broccoli, beans, and pumpkin. She opened the window, the fresh afternoon breeze rolling in, scraping across the light dampness upon her forehead. She used the crumpled tissue in her gown pocket to pat the small leakage of mucus on the edge of her nose, as well as wipe the sweat—she was a damned sickly mess.

"What else do you remember from then?"

May lifted her head to discover his attention drawn to the picture frames decorating the wall, opposite the dining table.

"Getting cakes from the corner shop. Always getting Allen's lunch order wrong," to speak of those times was an irritating scratch down her throat, and it caused her voice to suffer, "Concert on the roof. So many..." the memories dwindled into an indistinct croak, and she realised perhaps her body—along with her mind—was refusing to revisit such repressed love.

George hadn't noticed her difficulty to share, instead fixated on her wedding photo. To view that white wedding dress, to remember that dress...well, it brought back too much.

His confession accidentally plummeted over the edge, before he had the chance to retrieve it.

"I remember that ye' meant everythin' to me,"

George muttered a curse, momentarily shrouding himself in darkness as he shut his eyes. Shit, he was being soppy and vulnerable and distracted. When he finally looked over at May, his stomach stirred to notice the melancholic glint in her eyes.

"Don't do this to me, George," the warning paired with a painful knot in her throat, fighting tears.

"I'm not doin' anything," he defended, unable to avoid the image of her in that dress, "You wanted me here,"

She scoffed, "I was obviously thinking silly, that's all."

George tucked back the auburn strands that had loosened from behind his ear, "The last time we saw each other, you were sayin' things..." his thought scurried into the strained mood, and George was unbothered to pursue it, for he was dreading to set even the dimmest light on that event.

She took a deep breath, reliving every detail, and grieving it all. May's misty gaze slightly improved as she focused on the bench top, a lonesome tear drizzling down her cheek, and becoming a dried mark as the minutes staggered by.

"The way we ended wasn't the way it should've been," she weakly stated.

May peeked over at the vegetables which had to be placed on the tea towel to dry. Dinner had yet to be finished, washing still to do.

Now, she reminded herself, we need to talk now.

"I told Peter about...us,"

George was a little surprised, "An' how was he?"

"He was hurt, of course. But, he admitted he'd done wrong too, behind my back. So, he forgave me,"

George nodded, "Very understandin'—that's hard to find in a person,"

May would agree, had the nights in bed with her husband not been interrupted by a yearn for the man across the room.

"I still think of you, though,"

She risked glimpsing into his eyes, her core swamped with nerves—shallow, anticipating breaths, a stammering thump of her heart, queasy stretch in her abdomen. May clutched onto the bench top, requiring some means of stability as her body disintegrated with stress. Unveiling her feelings was somehow more nerve-racking now than in 1969, or even resuming contact with him in 1970.

No, everything was much, much worse, as the doubt saturated her flesh in a sweltering, slick perspiration. It was the sparkling tenderness across his brown irises that convinced her...perhaps the worry was silly.

George's warm reassurance didn't stay physical, as he confessed softly, "And I think of yer, too,"

The wounds of 69' had been opened, and as the pain gushed to the surface, a wistful sheen covered their eyes.

In time, wounds heal, but this was all too premature. George delicately confirmed in a solemn whisper, "I think of ye' so much, June,"

She looked at the clock: 3:40 P.M.

Peter, Peter, Peter. He'd be home in under thirty minutes. May's mind raced, trying to push back the panic. Sure, they both thought of each other, and that was nice to know. However, what had truly been on her mind—perhaps, from the beginning of these interactions—was whether George still felt things for her. Time, again, was not on their side, and twenty minutes was not going to be substantial for such a heavy conversation. To talk was not her only wish, but to take him to the garage and show him the presents she had kept from him, and share how helpful it had been through these despairing months to confide in the statues of Hindu gods.

'I came, I saw, I conquered,' was how Julius Caesar described his victory at the Battle of Zela.

Well, George came, he saw—but had he conquered? Ultimately, nothing had been resolved between them, and if anything only more questions arose. Closure was needed, but too many obstacles lay in the way.

And, as if George had read her thoughts, he said, "I should be heading off,"

May nodded, though neither moved. Now they were just saying things to outrun the inevitable.

"It's gettin' on, yes," she smiled sadly, taking another peek at the clock—3:45.

They got to the front door, but before May could turn the lock, George grasped her wrist. Their eyes met—her's awash in uncertainty though absent of rejection, his an enigmatic, cautious mixture. Seconds ticked by and they, almost simultaneously, fell into each other's hold. May clutched onto his navy blue jacket, afraid to let go, because how could she know when he would return? George rubbed her back a few times, the accumulated stiffness easing in her spine, finally relaxed since he walked through the door. After awhile, his hands stayed stagnant on her waist. May's cheek rest on his jacket lapel, her lips brushing the opening of his denim shirt.

She could have spent hours like that...comforted by the lull of his heartbeat, basking in his warmness, feeling...loved.

George's fingers lightly stroked her hair, "Can I give yer a ring sometime, June?"

He'd been so spellbound by the reunion with her, with her smell, her mahogany hair...that his request slipped out. May didn't respond, but he could tell by her slackened grip, he had been mistaken to make such a request.

"What is it?" he asked softly.

She sighed, first looking up at him, then his beard that had grown past his chin, and finally, the door. When she was seventeen, she wouldn't have second-guessed so much. Two years later, experiences were had, and wisdom gained.

"Can't we stick to writing?"

Now it was May's turn to realise her mistake, as George tensed.

"It's just a call, nothing more," he reasoned, sweetness in his tone, "There doesn't 'ave to be more,"

She nodded, "I know,"

Doubt, however, lingered in the back of May's mind. A phone call could lead to all sorts of things...more feelings, more heartbreak, more problems with herself, more problems with Peter—or even Peter finding out. She wasn't ready to rush things with George, and a simple phone call, to her, represented this. She wanted the friendship to build slowly—very slowly—because she still too in love with him to jump into hasty promises.

George accepted her words, and though it wasn't what he wanted to hear, it was enough—at least, for now. 

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A/N: Hope you enjoyed this chapter! Here are some more photographs of George on April 6, 1969—the day May was fired.