Vanity Completes Me

I propose the entire population of the world originated from the California city of Los Angeles. Now that is a mouthful for any non-believer, but let me assure you that it is a well-tested, highly possible, worst-case scenario. If all else fails, I tell myself, that is what I will say...

It was one of those days where the sun decided to reflect off of everything you mistakenly glance at: mirrors, water, windows, or someones glasses. Particularly the glasses, for it was from her glasses that the sun chose to deliberately gleam its way into my eyes, blinding me from the pedestrians crossing 43rd and Main. It was her glasses I trampled as I knocked her to the pavement, and it was precisely that moment she decided to drop her well-noted version of a Stevenson prose anthology to the ground. I immediately took her out for coffee.

You see, I am largely indebted to Stevenson for the inspiration of my own work. If you have not guessed, I am an artist of words, a poet, a writer, and I have written quite a few meaningful pieces, but greatly under the influence of Stevenson.

She wore a grand necklace and said she was married to a rich, young polo player. And her house was decorated with Oriental tapestries, priceless antiques, and giant bronze objects that had no use. She commented on balls, and afternoon teas, and talks at five with friends, and I stared at her, unconvinced. Her moment had arrived, she was invited to share her misfortune with someone, and it was all disguised with elegance, refinery, and concentration. She slurped down her coffee, showed me her favorite passages, and scuttled off for a meeting with a minister. I shook her hand, counted my blessing, and said something impressive about how life related to the smell of coffee. My bed felt awkward that night.

***

Mme. Loisel found her way home last night by way of street lamps and car lights. She had replaced the necklace with an old scarf and the husband with a clerk, and the brilliant home furnishings with a small, no-view, one bedroom flat.

Her husband, Mr. Loisel, was awaiting her return.

"Hello," he exclaimed, "You'll never believe what has happened this day!"

She stared at him blankly, awaiting his drab daily details that had nothing to do with fame or fortune.

"Yes," she muttered.

"Dear, we have won the lottery! Are you not thrilled?" he proclaimed.

She was not convinced. And her disbelief must have been apparent, for a few seconds later her husband continued:

"3,000 francs, isn't that grand?"

"Yes, I suppose, enough for a few things we have needed."

Her mind wondered back to her conversation at the coffee shop, any amount of money would never suit her needs. She wanted far too many things for a simple 3,000 francs. But however disappointed she was with the amount, she was still curious as to where he had retrieved the lotto ticket.

"Lottery?" she spoke, "Since when did you take interest in such a material game?"

"I figured it couldn't hurt dear, I only want the best for you. I thought you would be glad," he answered lovingly.

Impatiently, Mme. Loisel garbled something under her breath and headed to the bedroom; leaving her husband standing in the quaint, moon-lit kitchen alone.

Sleep did not come easy though.

***

I fixed her glasses as compensation for her skinned elbow. She is on her way now to retrieve them. I am by no means a repair man, but some screwdriver work and a new lens made them as good as new. I should show her my poems when she arrives, and my hourglass collection surly she can be no less than impressed with my vast array of maps and my philosophical ideas.

I answered the door.

"Good afternoon Borges," she smiled cautiously.

"Come in, have a seat," I stuttered.

I paced the room. My mind was completely blank, so I began:

"I propose that the entire population of the United States..."

27 minutes later I had summed up everything I had ever written, every idea that had crossed my mind, and it looked, if you were to paint it out, like a frustrating jumble of curved lines creating one black blob in the center of a completely blank canvas. I finally sat down, still holding a book of mine in front of me, while reflecting her blank expression.

"My glasses please," she stated quietly.

I handed them over and mentioned something dull about vanity and want versus thankfulness and need, hoping somehow to retie our lives together. She gathered her coat, put on her refurbished glasses, blinked, and walked out the door into the sunlight.

"Stevenson! Remember Stevenson!" I called out after her.

Another grand finale.