Dear Diary…

My eyes opened. I felt the comfortable warmth to my left and looked over at the clock. 6:50.

Oh shit. Joanne’s up.

I rolled over and examined my accomplice. 5’4. Waist-length blonde hair pulled to the side. Round cheekbones, the occasional dry pimple. Wet, chapped lips.

Moving down. Two breasts: pale (the victim of a summer tan line), firm, soft. Notably asymmetrical, especially with regards to the nipple. A nondescript waist and belly. Freshly shaven patch of pubic hair directly above the vulva (as is the style these days.) Legs, feet. Small feet.

I placed my hand on her shoulder.

“Time to go.”

A moan (a mildly content one, I think, although one can never be sure) escaped the girl’s lips. I picked up her sullied underwear from the floor and handed it to her. A few minutes later, the girl was gone.

That night Joanne called me to the kitchen.

“What did we say about having girls overs?”

I sighed. I did not respond.

“Do what you want when you move out. But for now, this is completely unacceptable. David and I have made ourselves very clear on the matter.”

This time, I met her eyes.

“Why? Why does it matter? Why do you care?”

“Because Dad and I said so.”

Of course. Weak response, reminiscent of the lazy answers during my childhood.

“Give me a reason — a good one — and I’ll be satisfied.”

“I told you. We said no sleepovers in this house.”

I looked down at the woman, my mother. Her wrinkled face told her whole story: artificial stress, self-induced worries. She looked back at me with stoic eyes.

I retreated to my room, burdened with the consequences of another stalemate in our long relationship.



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