#bingoposting

1968 ringo in his sgt pepper suit 🥰

Ringo really shouldn’t be here. The grass is tickling the side of his nose as the wind brushes through it, and the fleece blanket wrapped around him is heavy with morning dew. He grimaces. He feels damp and humid all over, like a dog left out in a rainstorm. Of course, maybe that’s what he gets for sleeping in the park.

He really should have booked a hotel, only he wasn’t thinking of such things as he stormed through the front hallway of his house. He didn’t even stop to grab his wallet or keys, not with George following him like a lost puppy. He had to get away from George. Maureen too.

He sits up with a groan, lodging his aching back against the mossy trunk of the tree next to him. It’s not fair that at 28 he seems to have stolen the spine of a 40 year old. His mouth opens unbidden into a yawn, and he rubs his hand across his face, feeling day-old stubble scratchy on his cheek. Tears prick at his eyes. He hadn’t thought they would do that to him. Mo, he knew, had not been faithful for a long time. He had elected not to care, because she at least wasn’t rubbing it in his face. Besides. He hasn’t been a saint either—heaven knows she deserves better than the likes of him.

But…

George. It hurts him that she had chosen George. And as for George himself…well. Ringo had known him for years, seen him on tours; he knew what he was like. But he thought George respected him enough to leave well enough alone when it came to Maureen. 

Apparently not. He bites down on the side of his hand, willing himself not to start bawling in the middle of a public park. It’s just one more thing to show him how expendable he is, he supposes.

Suddenly, he feels something poke roughly at his back, and a gruff voice says “Come on lad, up with ye. Ye know ye can’t sleep here; move it along, mate.”

Sweet Ringo, nice Ringo