Microfiction: Beth's Vanity

Beth’s vanity is elegantly strewn with candles, figurines, jewelry, perfume and hair accessories upon antique mahogany. A star-shaped candle never burns, topped with amethyst and turquoise in the rough, and iridescent Velcro dots and stars for glamour hair, sprayed with silicone shine, amber mascara wand highlights. Other candles burn when day becomes night, doors and shades close and she roves. A pewter open weave curves, cupping vanillaroma. A stained glass pansy-shaped holder—just like we drew it as kids—five half circles and a large dot in the middle—where the tea light sits, and a ceramic daisy lie nearby.
The somber silver lion guards a jewelry dish. The contents: a silver chain for which no pendant fits—the clasp is too weak or small. A mother’s antique ring in white gold filigree, a diamond chip, and a band worn dangerously thin. Beth couldn’t wait, kept asking when she’d get to wear it, have it. And it’s all she’ll ever wear. He delicately twisted that ring around her finger, nervously toying with it when they parted. Then there’s the large barbell tongue ring—never got a chance to buy a shorter one after the inflammation of the tongue and the last relationship subsided. Any tiny gold hoop earrings and studs—very first ones—still had them. Funny how a father takes his girl to tear holes in her ears.
Aromatics in Dream, Coco, CK-Be, Safari, Opium, Chanel No. 5 and jasmine, lavender, gingerlily, and juniper essential oils line the left shelf. The hyacinth bottle is empty, but she can’t toss it yet. Not yet.
Scattered daisies, roses dried, shrunk, crack to powder and dust nestled around leopard print, blue velvet and emerald trinket boxes bearing pendants in amber, gold, marquisette crosses, precious stones, liquid silver, a cameo. Two good watches have run out of time. A pearl-studded shoe takes a stance, near a pair of rhinestone bobby pins. A pill box pops open with the slightest squeeze. A jade necklace—an aunt’s gift—succeeded the pearl bracelet she lost after Sweet 16.
Makeup transforms and change is temporary, transient. Remnants of glitter eye shadow and its slow fall remain. She lost it all for one night in smoky lids of gunmetal grey, silver and blue hues while lip plump primer accentuated her views. Her lips taste varied moods—nectar, berry, sugar plum, desire, slayer, clovebud—mushing together like pillows in velvet, cream, matte and glossy and shimmery finishes. Rose water blush revives a young girl flush. Potions of line erasers, pore reducers, toners, enhancers and removers swipe away black mascara traces, hide flaws, years.
In the center, an angel figurine, a dryad in mauve robes, head down, gazes upon a tablet, feather pen in hand, scrawling.
Beth displays a brass art-deco lamp, throwing faint light, an Aladdin’s lamp for a few doubtful wishes, and an owl for wisdom—next to a blue, heart-shaped glass paperweight, holding her endless lists down, constantly rewritten, crossed out.
Beth’s vanity needs dusting.