Open Book
She opened the red leather-bound book and picked up her fountain pen. She paused. The blank vellum page stared back at her, clean, stark, empty.
She began to write.
The machinations of the human heart are of such complexity that often we are unaware of our own intentions even as we carry out our plans. A certain fellow has captured my fancy, and yet, on an intellectual level, I know that it is an impossible match, doomed to failure. I cannot ever hope that this man will understand the sometimes wickedly sinful trysts I engage in from time to time, nor would he think highly of me were he to know. Yet gentlemen are often blissfully unaware of the activities of ladies, regardless of their name or social status, and I fear it would senselessly shock some of them to find out that the ladies in high society often behave no better than the girls in the neighborhood speakeasy.
For that, I will make no apologies. I have always done exactly as I pleased, regardless of societal definitions of normalcy and expected behavior for women. Men may do as they please and are thought of as debonair, manly, and virile. Women do not have that freedom, yet I claim it for myself. Let them say what they will. I will not change to fit their model. I will associate with whomever I please, whenever I please. And if this gentleman is any sort of man at all, he will accept me as I am.
