Paul McCartney Imagines

68

June 1964

London was hot.

Not unbearably so, but enough that the air felt heavy against your skin as you walked down the pavement toward your flat.

The entire day had felt wrong.

You had tried not to think about it.

Tried not to count the hours.

Tried not to glance toward the telephone every few minutes like some pathetic schoolgirl waiting for a boy to call.

But it was difficult.

Because today was your birthday.

And Paul had forgotten.

At least, that's what it felt like.

The morning had started normally enough.

You'd woken beside him before sunrise, curled against his warm side beneath the sheets.

For a few wonderful moments, you'd smiled to yourself.

Your birthday.

And Paul was right there.

Surely he'd remember.

Surely.

Instead, he'd rolled over, kissed your forehead sleepily, and groaned about an early interview.

"Five more minutes," he'd mumbled into your hair.

You laughed.

"You've got work."

"I know."

"But you'll be late."

"I know."

He sighed dramatically before finally sitting up.

You had waited.

Waited for him to say it.

Happy birthday.

Anything.

But he never did.

Not while dressing.

Not while searching for a clean shirt.

Not while gulping down tea in the kitchen.

Nothing.

The silence had stung more than you wanted to admit.

And when he kissed you goodbye at the door and rushed off to meet the others, he still hadn't remembered.

By lunchtime you were disappointed.

By afternoon,n you were hurt.

By evening, you were angry.

You knew how ridiculous it sounded.

Paul wasn't a bad boyfriend.

Far from it.

He was attentive.

Loving.

Sweet.

He remembered things nobody else did.

The exact way you took your tea.

Your favorite songs.