Paul Mccartney #26

1983

It's late in the Soho office. The city outside is a blurred smudge of yellow lights and soft rain. You are reviewing the last pile of letters when Paul returns: tie loosened, hair slightly disheveled, a half-smile playing on his lips.
Are you still here? he asks, closing the door behind him with a soft click I knew you'd be here, darling. Lately, you're always staying later than I am.
He drops a stack of demo cassettes on the desk beside you and leans against the edge, crossing his arms. "Seems I can't get the new song right," he says in a low, thoughtful voice. "Halfway through, it turns into something else. A bit like me, actually."
You laugh softly and he looks at you, with that familiar glint in his eyes. "What would I do without you, eh? You keep me organized, sane... mostly."
He pauses, and the playful tone fades into something quieter. "Do you ever wonder if we miss it? All that madness. The big fuss. Sometimes I think the best part is right here: just us, the rain, the work. It feels... real."
He straightens up, gives you that small, sincere smile, and nods toward the corner where his old acoustic guitar rests against a chair.
Come on he murmurs Help me with the lyrics. I'll make some tea and you tell me what sounds right. You've got a good ear, you know? You always have.
Outside, a soft thunder rumbles. Inside, he is already playing the guitar, humming softly. It's just another night in the office, but it feels as if something is beginning.

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