John died on December 8, 1980. It was December 11, 1980, and I wasn't doing the best. I couldn't wrap my head around him being dead. I kept thinking he was just a call or a flight away, but he wasn't.
It was so close to Christmas. I wasn't going to be able to see him or call him to tell him Merry Christmas. Why was this so difficult‽ It's not the first time someone I know has died, so why was this different‽
"Paul?" Linda said breaking my train of thought. "Are you alright?"
"No, I'm not fucking alright!" I yelled but then regretted. "Sorry for yelling."
"It's alright... Would you like some tea?"
"Sure."
My mind began to wander back to John. Back to all the fond memories of youth.
John was leaning on me while we were walking down the street. He mummbled something slurring his words. I couldn't make out what he was saying.
"What's that?"
"You're the best fucking person I ever fucking met!" He slurred and giggled.
"That's very nice now let's get you home."
"Can I go to your house? It's closer.
"Fine."
We eventually got there alright. John was still going on a rant about triangles or some shit. I unlocked the door and John stumbled inside. I didn't have a guest bedroom, and we both had to go to the studio in the morning. We crawled into bed and John did he always did when we slept in the same bed, cuddle me.
"Here you go!" Linda said handing me a cup.
"Thank you." I took a sip and it made me feel calm and relaxed.
We woke up and frantically got ready for the day. John was still hungover and exhausted. He was complaining about how his head hurt and how he was "so tired."
"Stop your bitching and get ready!"
When we were finally presentable, we walked out of the house. We drove to the studio and started work.
"What are you thinking about?" Linda asked breaking my train of thought.
"Nothing important." I lied.