Tiffany's

Writing a will is no funny business. There's the matter of who to leave what to, and who will be absolutely outraged at the fact that they are not included in the will. But I've chosen to disregard all that. I've been ticking off people for a long time, and I see no reason not to do so, even when I'm dead. I, Thomas Winsome, am so outrageously rich that I could write my will on the face of the moon in gold infused puffy paint homemade by the Queen of England herself, but alas, writing a will is a monotonous task, and I figured the last incredibly tedious task I shall do must be done properly. So I thrifted a ratty old typewriter that probably went down with the RMS Titanic at one point in it's rusty typewriter life, and began punching away on a page ripped from my only and favorite niece's notebook. At the ripe old age of 67, I've seen a lot of strange things, people snatching ideas and small details to make themselves quirky and different. I wish I could tell you that I am different from them because I have never tried to become different, but I am the king of pretentiously quirky. I am the most flagrantly arrogant man the world has ever seen, and I was so confident in myself that my pretenses of being quirky actually became another one of Thomas Winsome's shenanigans. And so in one last act of what the world shall dub childish tomfoolery, I'm leaving Tiffany's my entire fortune. Yes, the jewelry store. My lawyer is half asleep in the chair in the corner of my hospital bedroom, and I chuckle quietly at the thought of the poorly masked horror that will be smeared across his young face when he reads what I've written. My fingers are sore from punching the shaky keys, but I persist nonetheless. You see, I've left quite a sizable sum aside for my niece, Diana, but none for my ungrateful brother, which leaves me with still quite a lot. I have no children, nor have I ever married, but Tiffany's is where I fell in love. I credit that darned jewelry store with my first and only love, which is a rather monumental thing in a man's life. I've seen the movie; I've seen Audrey Hepburn and her cracker jack ring, and I'm glad to say that I had a little something like that. Her name was Carlotta, and she had hair the color of roasted chestnuts and maple syrup eyes. I had met her in Tiffany's in the summer of 1972. I was there with a friend of mine, who was getting something for his girl. But Carlotta had stood there, in a dress of mint green, and had dropped her wallet while admiring a ring in the display, and I'd returned it to her, and it was love at first sight, so I asked her out. She'd laughed and told me that I was a strange man, asking out a girl he'd just met. I'd simply shrugged with a large grin on my face, already hopelessly in love. Carlotta laughed again after a moment and nodded. I'd taken her out dancing, to fancy candlelit dinners, to everywhere I could afford, still a university student at the time. She was a ballet dancer, with big dreams, and the light that would engulf her eyes whenever she talked about them was mesmerizing. I'd loved her a lot, and I had been sure she'd loved me back too. So I'd saved up all my money, and I bought her an emerald ring, the exact one she'd been admiring when we'd first bumped into each other, and Carlotta became my fiance. Then one day, she was crossing the street, her cheerful jubilant smile shining like all the world's stars. A car came racing around the corner, didn't stop, and the stars all burned out. From that moment onward, I'd closed my heart, packed it away in the wardrobe in a hefty safe, and I haven't loved since. Oh, I've tried, of course. There were many beautiful, intelligent women who I'd met, and gone out with, and perhaps it was the naivete of the foolish, romantic mind, but I couldn't bring myself to love again. Tears slide down my face at the memory, and I raise a trembling hand to wipe them away. I punch a few final keys and remove the paper. My fingers are puffy, on the verge of swelling, but I ignore the pain. The show must go on, after all. My eyes skim over the sentences quickly, and I nod to myself in approval. I know my younger brother, Gerard, will be enraged when he hears that he inherits nothing, even more so when he learns that only his twelve year old daughter has inherited anything from me, including the emerald ring that once belonged to Carlotta. Marie, my older sister, hasn't spoken to me since I was twelve, and since I hit it big with my company, she's tried to contact me a few times, but I haven't replied. I know that they'll be even more angry when they find out that I've left the rest to Tiffany's. I donate regularly to a few charities, but I'm not nearly noble enough to donate all my money to such a cause. Diana, though, probably will do it anyway, and the thought makes me chuckle. I'm well aware that Tiffany's is really and truly, not a wise beneficiary for my will, but I've been waiting ever since Carlotta died, to find some way to accredit one of the best periods of my life to that store, something in the magic of beautiful things allowed me to meet the most beautiful woman, and fall in love with her. "Wade." I croak, and my lawyer snaps awake, leaping to his feet. His eyes bug as he reads the will. "Are you sure?" He asks me, incredulous at the ostentatious thought of leaving such a fortune to a mere jewelry store. I nod, and I feel the certainty of it in my bones. "Definitely." I affirm. He hands me a pen silently, and I sign my name with a careful flourish. "You're an odd man, Thomas." He says, shaking his head. I look at him and laugh a little. "I know."