While I prefer things a little on the simple side, there’s something intensely interesting to me about opulence to the point of turning lurid. I wouldn’t want to live somewhere that looks baroque or rococo, but I’m fascinated by the ways that layering beauty on beauty on beauty feels grotesque.
Maybe it’s because I’ve never been rich that I find the ways that wealthy people spend their money so intriguing. I think of what I’d do if I had an extra thousand dollars per month and some of it is certainly self-serving, but gilded banisters and mother-of-pearl dishes are low on my to-do list, especially not together.
There is an assumption that, if somebody who is not wealthy has something nice, that they do not deserve it, that they should spend their money on something else, something practical. Luxury is reserved for the wealthy. That’s BS. The poor, the disadvantaged, the middle class, are just as, if not more, deserving than the rich. I think about this when I splurge and get dessert with dinner, when that small voice in the back of my mind says that I haven’t earned it, because I’m not worthy.
To that voice, I offer two manicured middle fingers and a smile.
Anyway, here’s a drabble.
(n.) From quaint, Old French cointe for “pretty, clever.”
A woman living a life of passion, expressed through personal style, leisure, and indulgence.
Marguerite knows what people say about her behind their hands. None of it is kind; each mention of her name is said with a little hiss, like a drop of acid eating through porcelain. She doesn’t get angry. Instead, she eats another cake and licks the icing from her fingers, a perpetual smile on her lips.
She wears ruffled trousers, flowers twined in her hair, lace and velvet and rich brown leather. She courts their disdain, crooking her finger and beckoning it closer. They will hate her regardless, so why not live in comfort and luxury to spite them, too?