Dreaming of Paul, George and Ringo

It was a small room, more club-like, not one of the large concert halls. The audience was great, sang along, they knew all the songs by heart anyway. I was improvising with Paul, bouncing the ball back and forth. He started a riff on his ridiculously tiny bass and I picked it up, added a twist and gave it back to him. Ringo hammered away at his drums, looking as if he were a little out of place, following his usual routine, a tad bored. John was missing, obviously, since he's dead, but I never liked him much anyway. But George was there despite being dead, and he somehow reminded me of Bob Dylan. I'd always thought they looked quite similar.

The audience kept applauding while I gushed down a bottle of water behind the stage. "Let's do 'While my guitar gently weeps' as the final encore," I suggested.

"No, not another encore, and especially not that one!" Paul replied.

I glanced at George, who simply shrugged - being dead gives a certain peace of mind, I assume, and he knew the others had never liked his song.
"Don't you hear how they're applauding - we owe them another encore!"
"No, they've had enough. I certainly won't play another one," was Paul's final reply, ending the discussion.

Reluctantly I handed my guitar over to the roadie and started to unbutton my uniform coat. We've been on tour for so many years now, but I'll be damned if I ever figure Paul out.

6:15am. My alarm rings. At least it's Thursday.