First Page: Untitled Manuscript Fiction
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Clara Sofia Rogers never imagined that taking 18 days off to travel to Roatán, Honduras with her boyfriend would be the shove she needed to acknowledge that she no longer had much desire to be a ballerina.
She didn’t miss it, not one little bit.
Lying on the white sand beach of their resort’s private island in a bikini, oversized sunglasses and enough sunscreen to protect an albino, she sipped her margarita and looked out at the clear, turquoise ocean, wondering how Travis ever left at the end of 18 days.
Of course, he traveled there to work, not to play, so he probably didn’t experience the same level of relaxation.
Glancing down at her battered toes, she expected they liked the change of pace.
Sighing as she carefully placed her drink in the sand beside her, she silently lamented that her vacation was almost over. Not that she could really complain. For 16 days she had escaped her reality, eating foods off her typical diet, exercising for only an hour a day, spending the majority of her time lazing on the beautiful white sand beach, and one very memorable day playing with dolphins. The following day, Travis promised to find time to go on the glass bottom boat tour with her, but given his penchant for reneging at the last minute, she wasn’t about to hold her breath.
Sadly, since all of her energy went toward training, she also had not learned how to snorkel before going to Honduras, and she heard from several people she encountered on the beach that there was some pretty fantastic snorkeling on their island, including a wrecked ship that she would have loved to explore.
It occurred to her, while talking to that middle-aged snorkeler with the hairy belly, that she was wasting her life.
Clara sighed, a little bit of dread weighing on her shoulders, and then she reached over and dug her cell phone out of her canvas bag and swiped her finger across it a few times until it was ringing.
A few rings later, her best friend Leslie answered brightly, “Hey, how’s the beach?”
“Fantastic. I’m literally lying here by the ocean sunbathing and sipping a margarita. I’m pretty sure Jimmy Buffet is going to stop by any minute now.”
“Sunbathing?” she reiterated, and Clara could practically hear her grimace.
“I’m wearing sunscreen, Mom,” Clara said mockingly.
“I should hope so. I can’t even imagine you tan. You’re as pale as a ghost; you’ll come home with sun poisoning as a souvenir.”
“You think I’m pale at home, you should see me on this beach,” Clara stated. “It’s likely a few people assume I am a ghost.”