Lilt

Sara Smiled

Sara slipped the ivory and silver bookmark between chapters 12 and 13 of the novel she had been devouring, and placed it on her night stand beside her charging phone, a crumpled grocery list, 3 earrings without a match, and a haphazardly tossed diamond ring. The digital clock raised the ante from 11 to 12, as her graceful hand instinctively carried out its nightly routine of fan, alarm, and light. Sara pulled the comforter snuggly against her slender neck, and rolled towards the open bedroom door in the darkness.
       The bookmark, a slender pick of ivory set in a thin line of silver, punctuated by a strand of blood red ribbon, had been given to her by a long dead aunt. Her aunt had been an avid reader, recognized that same habit in the young Sara, and chose to nurture it, by passing to her a very personal keepsake, to her budding niece.The aunt had done nothing more than breathe to find herself the owner of the bookmark. That repetitive intake of oxygen, however, had left her completely breathless for over a year. It was her youth, her one and only foray into love, and it was last memory she held of the most magical year of her storied life. Memory and value, unfortunately, are not passed as easily as an antique bookmark. To Sara, it was useful, it cured the need for intermittent dog eared pages, that made the book seem ragged and secondhand. She knew that Edna, or Edith, or aunt Meric had given it to her, probably because they noticed her book looking slightly like a hobos shoes, soul and heel separated, with socks and toes attempting to fall out at any moment. It was not so much of a gift, Sara thought, but an admonishment, by someone trying to improve her appearance. It was a stupid bookmark, but it was at hand.
     Sara was pragmatic. A creature of emotionless indifference. One that feigned emotion from time to time, but only ones that helped satisfy her physical desire. A casual observer would in time, become aware of Sara's internal dust up. She was cool, at times almost robotic. Sentiment and emotion were not at her disposal, but the physical urges of desire, and social need to be accepted were always inconveniently at hand. Women are at their core, driven by emotion, men by logic, although men can find themselves being led by the leash of emotion, if there is a girl at the other end. Sarah was an amalgamation. She was of the gender governed by emotion, yet experienced none. At the same time, she was not dependent on logic like men. She was in short, ice cold, but without the bother of pesky conscience . Sarah was the sharpest blade, wielded by the most unpredictable master.