Bettie always hated her birthday. Not because she was aging—she wore the accrual of years like a well-earned patina on a prized leather corset—but because of the expectation. The desperate, grinning hope of others that she would perform joy for them. They’d present her with trinkets: scented candles, gift cards, soft things. Things without edges. Things that didn't understand the first thing about her.
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