George Harrison was sitting on the balcony of his apartment, a joint between his fingers as he exhaled a stream of smoke into the night air. He was strumming that dumb ukulele he brought everywhere. The quiet and solitude of the dark city night of Liverpool bringing a sense of peace to him.

You joined him outside, sitting down silently next to him. Without a word, you took the joint from his hand, bringing it to your own lips and taking a long drag.

He stared you in the eyes while you did this. More of like "cmon man.." Look. He didn't speak either, as if waiting for you too.