1969

You began playing a chord.

"Ah,"

You heard the familiar voice intervene. It was Paul. Again. Really? You stopped playing and then looked up at him, impatience written all over your face.

"The strumming's a bit off, I'd'a hoped it could go like,"

He then demonstrated on his guitar, playing something that was frankly, very close to what you were playing. You rolled your eyes and ran a hand through your hair, explaining to him that you were playing what he showed you, trying to stay nice, but your patience growing thin. He came up behind you, and nodded.

"Play the chord again, show me the strumming pattern."

He asked, well more like told, you, leaning down. You played the guitar lick you and him had been practicing for what felt like years now, exactly the way he showed you a billion times. The daft bugger could be awful bossy when it came to his music, and frankly, it was one of the things you hated most about the guy. He got so fussy when things weren't organized, just the way he planned in his head.

"No, see," He began, as if he was about to give you the whole run-through again, and you scoffed. You'd had enough of his bossiness, and decided to take it upon yourself to tell him to chill out and just let loose with his sodding music. Now time to actually form the argument...