The Oh So Shallow Truth

His eyes shifted wearily between the women that flanked his approach. Gaudy, self-assured, overly pompous. His girlfriend smiled superfluously and waved her hand in unnecessary gestures of callous indifference. To his right; stalking, slinking almost, along the bright polished tile, her Sister followed. She nodded, the same false interest plastered on her face, betraying her true nature. Her boredom painted her eyes an ashen brown, detracting from the usual brilliance she carried with her.

He smiled and nodded as he walked, intermittently emitting a noise of acquiescence, a note of agreement to satiate her loquacious nature. What little conversation he did partake of was directed to the owner of those brilliant eyes. He would probably never realize his true unhappiness, forever detached from the importance of life. Saddled by his own shallow nature, blind to the treasures right beneath his nose. How would he answer the question then, what does it all mean? What purpose does his existence announce? Why was he in this world, in this mall, in between the extremities of his emotional scale, innately bored to tears by his choice, yet absolute in his amorous approach to the opposite sex.

Fuck knows. He sure as hell never will. Months will pass, years soon following, seeding his outlook on life, further entrenching his shallow embrace of beauty. He will be forever bound to the outlook that positions him as such, between these two choices, unable to make the clear decision. In time, his shell will erode, succumbing to the tenacity that only time can bear. He will, at first slowly, in time much more rapidly, begin to see the folly of his outlook in life.

Sunshine cuts through the delicately laid curtains, not too expensive, but chic to a degree that establishes an air of prominence in his own home. Gaudiness is a mark of the uncivilized she would always say, a blemish on the lifestyles of the well off that can grow without careful management. It must never be removed though. A blemish only helps to highlight the brilliance of perfection.

He rises slowly, stifling a yawn; she would reprimand such crass physical behavior. His aging right hand slides from the surface of the bed, careful not to rustle the mattress. She still sleeps. He places his robe gently around his shoulders and makes his way to the shower.

Awake. His mind rises from its slumber and emerges from the bathroom with him, bracing for a new day of his monotonous urbane existence.

She is awake. Sitting up, reading a magazine, tangled mess above her eyes. Such dead eyes, never brilliant, always inward, dull on the surface. She looks up, a smile that barely escapes a smirk slides across her sagging face. A look of forebearance, tolerance on her part. He was an accepted part of her life, a piece that was tolerated for its innate benefits. He went to work, he bought her many things. He had fathered her children.

The children. Such spoiled by-products of his existence. The male, 16, already just like his father. All night out and about, the “hottest girl in school” (having changed weekly) in his room with him regularly. The female, 15, already utilizing the tools of her mother, defacing the dignity of the men who met her, contracting a serious sickness. The kind that killed the hearts of well-meaning men. The curse of the unintentional vamp, a soul sucking existence, born to such beauty and raised in such condescending, artificial terms. One would never be able to view the true beauty of the human soul.

His shame is a part of him now. Growing with each passing day, it threatens to destroy his very outlook on life. It will dismantle what he views as essential daily, voiding the beauty he thought to be so necessary in his happiness. She was already losing it quicker and quicker. Money had never borne any more happiness for him, only squandered his investments. The ones that should count most, those of time and emotion.

He now stands in the doorway looking into the dead eyes of a vamp, his wife, the mother of his children. The girl he had thought he loved. He feels a deep well of regret begin to overflow, pouring out from inside, flooding his heart, stripping away the lining he had built as a youth.

What did it mean? Why was he here? Who were these people he spent his money on everyday? Why did he find himself loathing his role in their existence?

The future has arrived. What is next? Little new for a man as such. He will divorce her, see the children on weekends, find a new woman, young, attractive, rebuilding the lining in his heart, hiding away what he is. Locked into a box inside, his true meaning of life. His humanity will be devoured once more, locked away until broken out. The key now once again stolen by the dark, dull eyes of beauty.

For now, he must listen to the bland conversation that she propagates. It will continue for as long as she can stand, and after that for as long as she stays awake. What is said matters little, only the steady flow of words, a sound to fill the void. A voice given to the shallow emptiness that is his meaning of life. He will pursue this, forever grasping for more, unable to find what it is he really needs, deeply wants, the core of his essence.

He turns to his right, to respond to her sister, smiling politely. The brilliance returns for a second, a warm smile crossing her lips. She turns back to the floor. It fades.