“It’s a journal,” said Joanne, “It’s for your own personal entries; to write in there what you eat, when you exercise and your thoughts.” Joanne is beautiful; she has blonde hair, blue eyes, full lips and an unbelievable body. She is the epitome of an Aerobic Instructor. She is also the Nutritionist at the Oasis Health Club, which I have just recently joined.
'Are these people for real?' I think to myself. The last time I wrote in a diary, I was 12 years old. I stand there looking from her to the “journal”;
I'm already fucking sick of this and it's just begun. It's been 13 hours of staring at trees and houses and highway...for what? To get to some stupid resort where the boys can swim and Allen can bitch about how expensive everything is. Don't get me wrong, I love my kids and my husband, but the boys could just as easily swim in the neighbor's pool and Allen can CERTAINLY just as easily bitch about money at home. Besides, I really didn't wanna go on this vacation.
Author's note: The writer in this story is 26, Lessia is 24. All actions described herein took place between consenting adults and the relationship was established the year Lessia turned 19.
I think of roses every time I think of her. The glowingly soft, perfectly petalled rose so aptly described her as though it might have been her name, rather than the more exotic Lessia. My beautiful woman, the girl I knew and ignored for so many years.