If you're excited about Cheerios, check your homophones!
Butterflies is one of my very first short stories. I wrote it about six years ago and submitted it to The Erotic Woman, which said it was well-written but not erotic enough, and to New Love Stories Magazine, which said it was too erotic. So, basically, it's just been sitting in a digital folder for years, and since I'm not doing a lot of exciting new things at the moment (except typing away, of course, which you guys don't get to see!), I thought I'd offer it as a serialized story on my blog. So here's part one.
Butterflies: Pt. 1
After the divorce, Lana moped. She was forced to move back to her parents’ house until she could find a job that would support her without the help of her husband’s income. She spent most of her days reflecting on her short marriage and wondering why the hell she hadn’t seen the signs he was cheating on her. The fact that her mother continually pointed out she had been able to see the signs did not help improve Lana’s mood.
“You should get a hobby,” her best friend, Jane, suggested.
Lana rolled her eyes. They sat outside at a local café, eating salad and catching up. “Show me something cheap that isn’t full of children or retirees—or men, come to think of it—and I’m in.”
Jane grinned. “Actually, there is an art class being offered at the community college. Mostly college kids trying to get their core requirements filled. They’ll be close to your age, but if you wear your hair up and throw on a blazer, you’ll look older. They’ll leave you alone.”
Lana shoved a forkful of lettuce into her mouth, savoring the taste of fully-fattening ranch dressing. She remembered trying to make the marriage work: dieting, spending hours analyzing her imperfections, having sex when she didn’t feel like it. But those days were over, and now she could indulge. She could do what she wanted. Like take an art class.
“Maybe you’ll find it therapeutic. You know, get all your anger and aggression out. Splatter some paint. Could be fun.”
Lana went with Jane, who was taking master’s classes, to sign up the next day. She figured it was easier than wandering aimlessly around campus until she found the registrar’s office, possibly giving up, and ending up right back where she started—listening to her mother’s lectures and looking through the paper at jobs she was either over or under qualified for.
“Professor Aaron Michaelson?” She looked suspiciously at her friend as she glanced over the course description.
“Oh, he’s old and ugly.” Jane waved her hand dismissively. “Just write your name on the line and give the lady her money.”Lana did as her friend said, but she quickly learned that Professor Aaron Michaelson was not old and ugly. He was all of thirty-five and, unless Jane was going blind, drop dead gorgeous.