My Cardboard Balcony

by Belinda Rodd ie "Nice cockroach earrings." "They're not cockroaches," Ivy scowled. "They're scarabs. Can't you tell the difference?" The man shrugged with a slight chuckle and returned to his friends at the bar, and Ivy resisted the urge to throw her beer at him. However, because the pint had cost a good four dollars, she knew it was better to drink it than waste it. Still, though, it was like no one cared about history anymore, let alone interesting Egyptian history. Did no one get the significance of golden scarabs anymore? She was about to leave a dollar tip at the bar when "What Do You Want From Me?" rattled on the speakers. Ivy was intrigued. It wasn't typical for bars to play prog rock, but she was a big Floyd fan and she certainly wasn't complaining. As she turned her head toward the sound, she spotted a young woman sitting in the corner alone, drinking a cider and playing with her silver watch as she s

I was familiar with her personality type. People like her were unintentionally manipulative - still caring, but more inclined to look out for one's own needs. They were good with emotions, and that way they could discover new outlets to cultivate success or profit out of someone else's pity. But again, they did it all unintentionally. They were ignorant of their own trickery.