Vanity

• Brydon Davidson, Grade 11
• Short Story
• 2011

The street is dark and empty; the young man in skinny jeans sits alone. He is hunched over on a bench, but not too hunched for it would look lazy, not too straight because it looks unnatural; it is perfectly in between. As he finishes rolling his cigarette he pulls out his Zippo, inscribed upon it “Tam Vita Est.” The man does not know what the words mean, nor does he care, they are just trendy shapes. As he inhales the smoke, a cringe flickers across his face. To him it tastes foul, as for smoking however, he has no choice; it completes his look. Though he wears glasses, they lack lenses; they would obscure his beautiful eyes. It is late and he is supposed to be meeting people in the past, yet he still does not leave; that would look eager. When he finally arrives at a destination he is highly sought after. He flirts with the women and he flirts with the men, for it is good to be a little trivial. He is young and beautiful; but there is no substance to him. It is ok that he is just a shell though, for he wears the mask of youth which stops people seeing the real him. “Oh isn’t he just fascinating” cry his guests as they study him head to toe. But like the pretty painted egg, once the last of its colour has worn away; it is just a rotten egg. As the years wear on the young mans paint chips away; his friends no longer eagerly await him and his flirts remain untouched. The vain man still wears the glasses, though his eyes have grown dull with age. He still smokes the hand rolled cigarettes, though it is no longer a fashion accessory, and even though his lighter has become worn, and the words faded, it still reads “Tam Vita Est.” Such is life.