Please don’t forget that this never ever ever happened—this is merely a pleasantly odd export of my tiny little mind. Thanks! ;)

 

Things we Said Today

 

Paul was having something of a bad night. Here it was, half-past three in the morning, with what had promised to be a sure thing going with that motelkeeper’s daughter, Birdy. And he had gotten precisely noplace. First, she’d been about an hour and a half getting “comfortable”—which, he found out, constituted a full change of outfit and makeup. Then they’d begun to talk.

Normally Paul liked making a bit of small talk with a bird. Even shy girls loosened up when he took an interest in them; it helped a girl to feel like the only bird in Paul’s world—which they were, he reasoned, at the time.

But he’d never reckoned on a Birdy. Letting her open her mouth was dangerous. Paul was frankly astonished at just how much mileage she could get out of the subject of herself. Ask her just one question—“And how are you doing?”—and she could keep a hot-air balloon aloft. Listening to her had been another hour. It would probably have been longer, but Paul’s elbow had evidently taken the law into its own hands (metaphorically, of course) and knocked his drink into her lap. One unholy screeching wail about her new skirt later and the anti-succubus was gone to change her clothing. That, Paul reflected, had been about an hour ago. What could possibly be taking her so long? This was a one-night stand, not a job interview.

Paul looked at the clock again and sighed. Sometimes the things he’d do for a girl amazed even him.

 

*             *             *

 

Birdy was having something of a bad night. Here it was, half-past three in the morning, with what had promised to be a sure thing going with the Beatle Paul McCartney. And they hadn’t even done anything yet.

It had started with her going to get dressed. She’d wanted to look her absolute best for this encounter of the fab kind. So naturally she spent a bit more time selecting her wardrobe and preparing her face than she usually would for, say, going to school or church or the corner drugstore. Every hair had to be in place. Everything had to match. Everything had to look perfect. For crying out loud, it was Beatle Freaking Paul Freaking McCartney! What girl wouldn’t want to look her best for Paul?

But did Paul notice when Birdy floated into his room, a veritable vision of feminine allure in different shades of green? No. Instead he rolled his eyes and gave Birdy a positively wounding “what kept you?” look as he began to pour out drinks. Then, in case that wasn’t injury enough, he started to talk about himself for an hour. What an egotist! If it were any other man on the planet, it would’ve appalled her. But it was Beatle Paul, so she ignored it, like she knew a real lady ought to. Even so, she was a bit relieved when Paul’s elbow accidentally sent his drink into her lap. It gave her an excuse to get away from him for a while.

Birdy looked at the image in her mirror again and sighed. Sometimes the things she’d do to have a somewhat illicit rendezvous with a sexy pop star amazed even her.

 

 

 

***Authoress’s note: If you’d like to use this story for anything or take it someplace, please ask me first. It’s just one little email, not too much trouble, and the odds are in your favor for a yes if you ask me nicely. I just want people to recognize the story as mine, okay? ;-)