From Taylor’s Point of View:

            I shut the bathroom door quickly.

“What the hell did you just do?” I asked my reflection, the voice not matching the body. I looked at it. I hardly had the time to check myself out. It seemed real, I mean, it was pretty accurate. She must have done more than just a prosthetic nose. Maybe it was the teeth, or the eyebrows.

I checked the eyebrows, sideburns, and mustache to make sure they were straight. They were perfect. The eyebrows thick, and furrowing, the mustache droopy. Where does she get these things?

I thought about the positive things. I was actually quiet, not the stereotypical quiet label the press gave to George, but I was quiet in a good way. I listened instead of doing all of the talking.

“George?” asked Julie, “I’m going to slip into something more comfortable. Do you want one of my specialties?”

“Sure thing, luv,” I said back in my George voice. Okay. I just called her luv, which really didn’t compete with feeding her chocolate soufflé, giving her my jacket, holding her hand, and kissing her on the elevator. I mean, the kissing was kind of okay. Whenever my mom sees one of her friends, they kiss each other on the cheeks. But, getting back to the subject, I just agreed to have a specialty. That’s what the bimbo barmaids serve in Julie’s bar when the “like” a male customer. Then the male customer comes home with them, and then the barmaid comes to work the next day “perky” and “excited”.

I got into character, well, not character, because George Harrison was an actual person. I gave myself a wink in the mirror, and closed the bathroom door.

I sat at the kitchen table, noticing the shot glass. It was pink and green at the same time. I sniffed it. It smelled like musk and perfume. Mmmmm... I nursed it, taking sips. It tasted like tequila and crushed olives, interesting bouquet. I glanced at Julie’s bedroom door. She was probably, “slipping into something comfortable”. Everyone knows what that is code for.

Julie’s Point of View

I felt kind of stupid for giving him the specialty. That was going to a new low.

Still, I was attracted. He had this familiarity that I’ve known him for years. I put on one of my silk nightgowns that my cousin bought me and some mascara.

I walked into the kitchen. George was nursing his drink. Smart move.

He looked up raising one of his eyebrows.

“You didn’t need to do this, y’know,” he said.

“I’m sorry,” I said, “Maybe it was the chocolate I ate. You shouldn’t drink it.”

“It’s good, though. About how many flavors did you put in there?”

I laughed. George walked into Taylor’s bedroom, glanced at her acoustic guitar. He strummed the chords.

“Gear.”

“It’s Taylor’s,” I said, lounging on the couch, “You play?”

He nodded. He put on the guitar strap, and sat on the bed, I plopped in Taylor’s bean bag chair. He started playing this bluesy song. It sounded very familiar, the song and his voice. He finished and did a slight bow.

“The Beatles,” I said, “Interesting. I think that’s on one of Taylor’s CD’s.”

“Right. I wanted to know how it sounded. I’m in the semifinals for a Beatles tribute band.”

“Taylor sent in a CD but she didn’t make it.”

“Sucks,” he shrugged.

“Speaking of which,” I exclaimed, glimpsing at the clock, “It’s almost twelve o’clock. Taylor should be home by now.”

George laughed.

“What?” I asked.

“I spend a whole night with you, Julie, and you still don’t know who I am.”

“Yeah, you’re the guy Taylor likes, and will be pissed at when she finds out you kissed my cheek.”

“Not even close. My name is George. I’m from Northern England. I play the guitar. I look like something out of the sixties.”

“Oh my God,” I exclaimed, “You’re George Harrison’s spirit coming down to Earth to save me! This is a huge mistake. It’s Taylor you should be saving, not me, she’s the Beatles fanatic.”

“You’re kidding,” he smiled.

“No, I’m not.”

“Did you have the specialty?” he kidded.

“No.”

            He looked up. “Come on, you’re quicker than this. I should know.”

He took off his teeth, his nose, his eyebrows, peeling his disguise, his identity from his face. He took off his sideburns, his hair, his mustache revealing…

“Taylor!”

“Told you I’d make it. You needed some cheering up.”

            “How could you? You kissed me!”

            “On the cheek.”

“Oh dear… Oh dear… You aren’t making any lifestyle changes, are you?”

“No. I needed to test the ‘guise out that I’m wearing tomorrow. You have gone from guy to guy, who barely knew the real you, and you needed one who actually noticed you, and listened to you, and understood you.”

“Let’s just go to sleep,” I said quickly, “you need the rest for the audition.”

            I left the room, confused, yet content. Then I remembered: this is Taylor.