The Journal

A Story by Vines

Beth Anne was a beautiful woman. Big brown eyes, sandy blonde hair, athletic build. She wore flashy clothes. When she entered a room, heads turned. Beth Anne thrived on attention.

I was feeling out of place and uncomfortable at a work event the first time she approached me. I was in awe.

“I’m Beth Anne,” she said, her hand extended. “So what’s with these VP jerks making us feel uncomfortable?” I will never forget those words.

I could tell she didn’t actually feel out of place, but it felt good to have a beautiful woman paying attention to me for once. I immediately felt an attraction that intensified throughout our three-year relationship.

We spent all of our time together. I took her to extravagant restaurants. She told me how attractive I was. I bought her designer clothes. She wore them with confidence, satisfied that people noticed her. I took her on exotic trips. She gave me intimacy. She boasted about our intimacy, gratified by others’ envy.

I fell for Beth Anne. She told me I was sexy, and we shared an abundance of intimate moments and massages on the couch every night. Her way with words was intoxicating and addicting. I felt special. But did she love me?

There was a side of Beth Anne that was hidden. She shared no feelings. Did she have feelings? I knew little about her past. Red flags, I told myself. But none of that mattered. I loved her.

As our relationship continued, I suspected she was having an affair. Suspicious calls, texting, and “business” trips increased my fears. When confronted, she pitifully talked of loneliness and needing friends. Her words, beauty, and the intimacy we shared colored my thoughts. I only cared about her.

One day I found the house empty of her belongings. Without emotion, she told me she was leaving, and drove off. No explanation. Despite my attempts to find her, I never saw her again. I could only conclude that she had left me for another man. But I refused to accept the obvious. I couldn’t.

Weeks later, I found a brown leather journal beneath some boxes in our closet. I began to read:

Today, I met Henry for the first time. Just my type. Vulnerable and shy. Sub-average looks. He thinks I am hot. I know I have him hooked.

I continued with another entry:

Henry thinks the world of me. He buys me hot clothes and I wear them so guys notice me.

I read another entry:

I met another man today. He fits the bill. He will fall for me. I am still with Henry and will bleed him a little more.

Tears flowed, my head numb. I read more:

There are three men now. My power over these men! Three at once!

The last entry said:

I am leaving Henry tomorrow to move in with Jim. I still plan to keep Mike in the picture, though.

I cried for hours, my suspicions confirmed. How could she have done this to me? I read the journal again, making note of the men’s names. I empathized, for they too had fallen to Beth Anne. I wanted to contact them. Her lingering power over me kept me from doing so.

Her handwriting reminded me of the letters she had written me. Her words so powerful, even in her absence. Each time I thought of reaching out to the other men, I clawed back. I just couldn’t harm Beth Anne. In her absence, the journal was her.

The journal is still where she left it, deep beneath the boxes in our closet.