Paul McCartney

Paul has always been told about how wonderful women are. He grew up in Liverpool, and in the music world, and it seemed that was all they talked about. Women were hot, and sexy, and having a girlfriend was the best thing in the world, because they were pretty and stuff. Paul wasn’t exactly sure, really, because a lot of it was rather impolite. But he’d learn, right?

He always knew he was a little strange. Not quite right. When he’d first met John, he had that funny feeling in his chest that almost made his stomach queasy that didn’t go away for months. He’d joined in with all the other lads, teasing Brian, but sometimes he wanted to lean close to the man and ask him what it was like. But that was all natural human curiosity, right?

And he’d never really loved the girls he was with- liked them, sometimes, if they were funny, but never really anything that made his heart sing, and he knew a lot about singing. But everyone else liked girls, so Paul figured he’d grow into it. Just keep trying. You’ll find the right one, right?

But it’s January 23rd, 1969, and Paul feels horribly, horribly stuck. Engaged to be married with Linda, the Beatles in a catastrophic, inevitable, self-imploding tailspin, and everything about Paul feels wrong. He doesn’t love his bride to be in the way he should, no matter how he tries, and New York is absolutely nothing like Liverpool. So at 12:30 AM, he sits alone in the shittiest diner he could find, and he stares at the walls of the city that never sleeps.