I have to start with, I never intended for it to go that far.
Okay, so, now that that is out of the way, here goes.
I'm a fairly young French teacher in a rural high school. I spent my first couple of years out of college substitute teaching in the same district I teach in now, so by the time the school superintendent decided it would be a good idea to hire me, I had already made connections with faculty, staff, and the students at the school. This year was my first year having my own classroom.
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I can't remember a time in my life when he wasn't around. Patrick and I were born two days and two plantations apart. Our families were good friends and even better business partners. From the moment we were born, they dreamed of uniting their plantations just outside of Savannah, Georgia and producing another generation of devout Catholics. 1100 acres and 12 children total. Yes, it seemed Patrick and I were destined to be together.
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I finished feeding the cat and sank down onto the kitchen chair with a deep sigh. I tilted my head back and closed my eyes, and tried to unwind, but I was still too keyed up. So I poured myself a glass of cheap Bordeaux, walked into the living room, put a blues CD into the stereo and sank onto the sofa.
As days went, mine had been a bitch. Late to get up, late to start, and it had just snowballed from there.
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I had driven 25 of the 50 kilometres of my way home from the Christmas Eve celebrations I had at my girlfriend's home. I decided to call in on old Miss Tomlinson, my old retired schoolteacher, she and I finished school the same year; I at 16 and she at 60. That was 12 years ago.
Why I decided to call in on her I have no idea still. Sure I saw her in her garden and waved as I passed her house on many occasions, but never once stopped.
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I took the job as a maid at the golf resort because, one, I figured I'd be left alone a lot of the time while I cleaned, and two, because what else was I going to do after high school? Work a bar, work a cash register at the feed store, either one I'd have to deal with assholes who poked fun at me for being a fat girl. I didn't consider myself fat, just sturdy. It wasn't because I ate potato chips and candy bars all day, it was just genetics that made me as strong as an ox.
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Show horses are sports cars. They're fast, smooth, sleek, and attract like kind in owners, trainers, and dealers. As the most popular of these steeds hail from the strong sons and daughters of a Central and South-American breed, most of these trainers, owners, and human accomplices are fine, muscular, dark-skinned Latino men who know how to move, in the saddle, on the dance floor, and even in the sheets.
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There's a faded childhood scar on her jaw. It shows in sharper relief in the flickering candlelight.
She walks to me, letting her cream chemise spill to the carpet. The beauty mark on the inside of her thigh winks at me as she crosses the room.
I had stripped and laid down on our bed earlier, as soon as I saw the lit candles and massage oils on the nightstand.
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I walked in to a dimly lit room where the windows had been well covered and a few candles were placed here and there. My eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness and I saw what was perhaps the prettiest young blond I had ever seen in my life. There she was, sitting on the edge of the bed wearing a blindfold and nothing else except waves of thick long blond hair which covered both breasts, and hung down to her thighs.
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This is a story I wrote a while ago, while I was still crushing on one of my friends big time. It is a goofy story where I attempted to convince her that we could work. Let's just say in real life distance won. Please vote and comment.
SAbitch
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Looking down at the crescent nail marks gouged into my hand, I made a rueful mental note to get you drunk before we took off next time. Turning my face towards the warm sunlight streaming in the window, I sighed, it had been far too long since I had been back. I could see the islands growing bigger across the clear bright aqua water.
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