A/N: To make the dates fit, I'm going by the characters being born in 1949. This is just a little story that hit me since I've started this new obsession with the 1960's. I own nothing but the concept for the story. Enjoy.

June 1967

"Elvis and Priscilla got married," she remarks casually, brushing a strand of long black hair out of her face. Her green eyes squint as the sun beats down on her from the cloudless sky.

We are a few miles outside of town, my car parked in an old field which had been a pasture once, but was now commonly used for parties by local youth. We had originally come out here to get high, but had since decided to save my weed for a later date. For now, we smoke hand rolled cigarettes under the endless blue sky, dusty gold wheat fields and pasture land stretching far into the horizon around us.

"I hadn't heard," I comment dryly after letting out a smoke-tinged breath. "I don't pay much attention to Elvis since he tried to act." I flick my own longish blond hair out of my face with a toss of my head.

"Last month, Violet told me," she asserts, not minding my sarcasm. She brings her own cigarette to her full red lips and takes a long draw, leaning back onto the hood of my car as she does. Behind my dark glasses, I let my eyes survey her long, lean legs covered in tight faded denim, her softly curved hips and flat, trim stomach, her lightly browned skin that shimmers under the summer sun, her rounded breasts that hang braless under her thin, sleeveless blue blouse.

She doesn't wear bras. Some feminist trip I'm sure she explained to me at some point.

She lowers her cigarette, flicking away the grey ashes as she looks at me. "I thought you said the great musicians couldn't marry."

It's actually more of an accusation than a question.

"They won't last a year," I murmur, tearing my eyes from her body. "Elvis is on his way out ever since the Beatles came on the scene." I take another drag of my smoke. "You heard their new album, Sargent Pepper's?" She nods her head unenthusiastically. "Pretty trippy, huh?" Again she nods. I drop my cigarette and crush it under the heel of my shoe. I move to face her, resting my hands on her hips, leaning in and kissing her exposed collarbone. "You like that song, Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds?" She remains stiff and unmoving, save for the last draw of her smoke.

"Hmm." A non-committal utterance accompanied by a long exhale of tobacco smoke.

"Want me to learn it for you?"

"Hmm."

This is going nowhere.

"What's got you in a knot today?" I ask softly as she flicks the butt of her cigarette away.

Silence.

"You know it's hard to make love to a statue," I comment, lewdly teasing her. She shrugs away my affection, refusing to look me in the eye.

"They're gonna draft you," Lucy murmurs.

"Lu-"

"You're gonna have to go to Nam."

"I won't go," I sigh with a frown. This is not what I was expecting today.

"You'll go to jail."

"Not if I'm in university."

"And if you don't get accepted?" she asks, staring me in the eye.

"I will..."

"What if, though?"

"I'll go to Canada."

"You'll never be allowed to come back to the States."

"What a loss that'll be," I smirk with a droplet of sarcasm. Again, she ignores my satire.

"Schroeder..." she says with the slightest hint of exasperation.

"Come on, Lu," I sigh, " we've had this discussion before."

I'd taken to calling her Lu since we'd started seeing each other over a year ago. No one else could get away with it, which is why I loved it. It was mine. My own private name for my own private muse. No one else could ever have her the way I did.

She turns from me now, arms folded under her breasts, taking a few steps away from me. I can tell she's on the verge of tears, and probably doesn't want me to see. She likes to pretend she's invincible.

"This is about Franklin, isn't it?" I ask quietly. I see her shoulders shudder and know I'm right.

Franklin, a year our senior, had joined the military the day after his 19th birthday in February. He had been an army brat growing up, and it seemed only natural that he should follow in his father's footsteps. Though our opinions differed, we'd remained friends. He'd call me Hippy, I'd call him Flat-top. During his weekend leave, we'd do much the same as we'd done in the past. We'd play cards with the guys, drink our parents beer, goof off like normal teenagers.

In April, barely a week out of his initial training, he had been sent to Vietnam. It had been hard to see him leave. Violet had been crying ever since, hardly making it through his letters, terrified his mother would call to tell her of his death on the floors of the jungle.

Violet and Franklin's relationship had shaken up the town. For the past two years, the two had put up with a never-ending barrage of racist bullshit from all sides, most notably Violet's mother, though that had started to fade after the first year. School administrators didn't allow the two to meet on school grounds (not that they'd ever attended the same school, and some store owners refused to let them into their businesses together. The two refused, however, to let it come between them, and vowed to get married and move out of town as soon as Violet was finished high school. However that was before Franklin was sent to Vietnam. Violet waited day after day for his tour of duty to end so they could start somewhere new, away from the small mindedness of our little pissant corner of the country.

I want to ask Lucy so badly if she'll run away with me as well, after Franklin and Violet's wedding, whenever it happens. I'd love to take her to New York City, or to New Orleans, or to San Francisco. Anywhere at all will do nicely. To me, it doesn't matter if we're ever married. Just being with her is enough. Sometimes I think that just loving Lucy - to be loved by Lucy - is all I'll ever need...

"I don't want to be like Violet," I hear Lucy whisper, and I am shaken out of my thoughts. "I can't wait around for news that you're dead." I say nothing, but approach and wrap my arms around her thin waist from behind. I rest my head on her shoulder and nuzzle her neck softly.

"I won't leave you," I promise in a whisper. My breath grazes her ear and, though it's hot out, I feel the goose bumps rise on her bare midriff. "Besides," I continue, "we have a while before conscription even starts to apply to me. Maybe the war will be over by then."

"Seven months," she mutters, leaning slightly against me. We stand like that for a few minutes, neither of us saying anything. Her skin is cool and soft. A refreshment from the summer sun. She smells like Baby Soft perfume and tobacco. I feel her sigh softly.

"You okay?"

"I love you, you know." She states bluntly. "You're impossible, but I do."

Though she can't see it, I grin. Later, when I'm alone, I'll listen to Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds over and over again, sorting out the music in my head so I'll be able to play it for her on the piano. I'll lay on my bed with my eyes closed, remembering the feeling of her laying there with me, reminding myself of how loving Lucy makes me feel like I'm in that boat on the river, taking in the marmalade skies.

"I love you, too, Lu."