George Harrison #5

1970, Friar Park, England

His calloused fingers slid the vinyl onto the turntable, and the soft crackle filled the high, dimly lit room. His face betrayed nothing; however, after four years of marriage and a band on the verge of dissolution, his silences had grown heavier, more impenetrable. Just two days prior, his best friend had released a new album, Layla and Other Assorted Love Songs. Critics were already calling it a masterpiece, and George, usually calm to the point of indifference, seemed unusually interested in hearing it for himself.
You sat beside him on the worn velvet sofa, sharing a cigarette; not with tenderness, but as they used to do when listening to records at night. But not tonight. Not this record. You already knew exactly how he would react to that particular song.
Layla.
The song Eric had dedicated to you, just a few days before the album's release, was a barely veiled declaration of love that practically screamed: "Leave him. Come with me." But you didn't. You couldn't. Even with George's infidelities and the cold indifference that had seeped into every corner of the marriage, escaping seemed impossible. Despite everything, whether you wanted to or not, he already had your love, your heart, your soul.
George's fingers drummed restlessly against the fabric of his dark brown flared trousers, his gaze fixed on the far wall where the firelight flickered over old framed sketches. When the first bars began—drums and bass in a fluid, harmonious blend—he leaned back slightly, as if settling in.
But when the lyrics started, something stirring inside him intensified. His expression hardened; he clenched his jaw. He stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray with such force that he crushed it. Now, all he heard was betrayal: raw, brazen.
Of course he suspected it. Eric's glances, the way he would linger. But George had been too absorbed in other women, in his own wandering devotions and spiritual quests, to pay attention to the details right in front of him. After the longest seven minutes of his life, even before the next song could begin, he stood up abruptly and yanked the vinyl off the turntable.
"You knew," he said. Half question, half accusation, looking past you rather than at you. There was no sadness in his voice, nor guilt. Only anger, frustration, the pain of betrayal, and a deep, latent resentment.
It seemed as if he were about to walk out that very instant and punch Eric's face in for daring to think he could reach for something George believed was his. Damn all his spiritual beliefs!

.