Dear Journal:
I prefer walking early, before it gets hot. To the shock of no one, Sissy was still asleep when I knocked on her door at 7 AM.
“Gimmie a minute,” sissy moaned through the door once my gentle knock became a bang.
After 20, she still wasn’t ready. I was about to leave without her when she finally emerged wearing a gray tank top with a matching ballcap and the striped, black shorts from the night before. There’s no way the sissy of a few months ago would’ve worn the same pair two days in a row, much less one she’d worked out and probably slept in, but I imagine her wardrobe options have pared-down as her figure has peared-up.
At least the shorts adequately covered her fattened ass and widened hips. The tank top was the more questionable choice. The only thing fitting about the garment was its name. While I wouldn’t go so far as to say it made her look like a tank, it certainly maximized her guns and bazookas.
To sissy’s credit, she didn’t spend time in the bathroom getting ready. She probably didn’t expect to see anyone she knew. Except me, of course, and I didn’t count. Next to me sissy still looked model pretty.
Twenty minutes later, we were walking through the park near our house. It was a nice day, and I was about to say as much when sissy sniffed, “Is this how you lost your weight? Walking?”
It was nice of sissy to acknowledge my weight loss. Too bad she did it in the most offhand and dismissive way possible.
“I’ve also been watching what I eat,” I replied. Actually, I’ve been watching Michelle eat what I normally would have eaten. Tomato, tomahto.
“Hmph,” sissy grunted.
I didn’t appreciate her disparaging my workout regimen, so I picked up the pace a little. By the 45-minute mark, sissy’s gray tank was stained dark with sweat, and the strands of hair she’d strategically untucked from her cap to frame her face now clung to it.
“This is better exercise than I thought,” sissy huffed, trying not to sound winded.
“It adds up,” I said, trying hard not to seem winded myself. The distance wasn’t bothering me—we’d gone less than three miles at that point—but I was walking at a faster pace than usual, and the late start meant higher temperatures.
“Are you looking forward to the cruise?” I asked. I figured if I got sissy talking, I might be able to ease our pace without it being obvious.
“Yeah,” sissy said. “It should be fun.”
She didn’t sound very enthusiastic. I wasn’t sure if it was because she was out of breath or just plain unenthused. I know she wasn’t keen on sharing her graduation gift with the family.
“I read about this place called Stone Island, near Mazatlán, that has nothing but pristine beaches and cheap, beachside bars. Maybe we could go?”
“Do you think they serve eighteen-year-olds?” she asked.
I chose to ignore the fact that she was only worried about her eighteen-year-old self. “I expect they’ll serve anybody.”
I had piqued Michelle’s interest. Soon, we were having animated discussions about Mexican beaches, beers, and currency. I’m sure the pedestrians we passed by during those precious moments thought we were normal siblings with a loving relationship. It was nice.
Then sissy brought down the mood.
“Hopefully, I’ll look decent in a bathing suit again by then.”
Of course, it all comes back to her. We fell silent at that point, and I slowly began to seethe. The pounding of my feet against the pavement echoed in my brain like painful reminders of the truth.
Michelle never would have offered her mea culpa from the night before if she were still perfect. It was only now that she was turning into a lardass that she wanted to be friends again. Fuck that. I had seen this play before. Once sissy got her act together, there’d be no room for me in her production.
“And this is our reward,” I said, holding open the door to Starbucks.
Five minutes later, I sipped my tea and smiled as Michelle refilled her caloric well with the fat-bomb I had bought for her.
--Jessie