I recalled an incident when, on seeing the single birthday card I’d received one year
(from a journalist who’d somehow managed to track me down, with a note inside reminding me
that she’d pay a substantial sum for an interview, anytime, anywhere),
he claimed that I deliberately hadn’t told him the date of my birthday.
For my twenty-first birthday gift, he therefore punched me in the kidneys,
kicked me as I lay on the floor until I passed out and then gave me a black eye when I came round, for “withholding information.”
The only other birthday I could recall was my eleventh.
I received a sterling silver bracelet from the foster family I was living with at the time, with a teddy bear charm attached.
I was very grateful to receive a present, but I didn’t ever wear it. I’m not really a teddy bear sort of person.
I wondered what sort of gift the handsome singer might give me, for an anniversary, say, or for Christmas.
No, wait—for Valentine’s Day, the most special, romantic day of the year.
He’d write a song for me, something beautiful, and then play it for me on his guitar while I sipped perfectly chilled champagne.
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다음페이지
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