Morning in Paris
By Milada Dzevitski
Hélène Moreau lived in a fifteen-square-meter studio tucked in the corner of Paris, overlooking the elite view of the dumpsters a few streets down from the Eiffel Tower. Hélène understood the honor of living in her apartment; it allowed her to continue her career as a model in the city, and it gave her a roof over her head, which was rare in this economy. She worked paycheck to paycheck, which then led to bill to bill, with whatever was left for groceries and cigarettes.
This morning, like most mornings, Hélène found herself rummaging around in her cabinets and refrigerator like the pesky raccoons in the dumpsters, looking for anything, absolutely ANYTHING at all to eat. She had a cigarette between her fingers with hot ash trailing behind her as always—it would be unlike Hélène to not have one; no, it would be very un-Parisian of her, not French of her.
“In this day and age, l’oeufs are the new gold, and I do NOT have any oeufs; instead, I find myself with a few slices of moldy bread and a tub of beurre goodness,” she muttered while taking a puff from her cigarette (in the most French accent). “Ouf!”
As her routine usually goes, she sighs in disappointment and delicately takes a slice of the baguette from an ancient paper bag, scraping off bits and cutting off edges that would make anyone go, “Wow, that’s bread?” I can’t believe it’s bread.”
Then, logically, she makes the executive decision to either use her microwave as a last attempt to bring some life back into it, which has a fifty-fifty chance of catching on fire and making her microwave a thunderdome of flame or gradually heating it ever so slightly using the top of the stove, specifically not the elements. The stove is an original piece from when the apartment building was initially built in the eighteen-hundreds; Hélène does not trust the elements.
She now takes this magical tub that’s holding her life together with its buttery-looking spread; “If I spread something on my baguette, then it must be beurre. What else could it be? That’s right, nothing.”
Butter is the perfect addition to bread; it really butters her toast with that combo. She fists her full hand into the tub, rotating her hand as she does, scooping this glorious yellow yum-yum and smearing it on her bread. Now this, this is what she calls a true breakfast. This is why she gave up everything to move to Paris, to live in this tiny shithole and walk all those runways all day while creeps stare with dislocated jaws. This is the life.
She bites in, basking in its flavor, and with each bite, she loudly moans out in exhilaration, “Mmm, beurre…”
It feels like years since she’s eaten something. She grabs the tub with her buttery hands, trying to not let it slip out of them onto the floor, as she cannot afford another one. Hélène wanted to learn more about this magical butter: how could something so affordable taste so good? How could something be good for once?
“WHAT THE FUCK??”
Hélène drops her cigarette. She skims past the whitest forty-year-old woman font that nobody gives a shit about (that’s the marketing stuff; everybody knows that’s not important). “More…BUTTER…taste…” to her discovery. She had 100% the flavor but 0% her sweet, sweet cholesterol ticket out of this world. “I can’t believe it’s not butter!”
With the uttering of those words, she threw the tub across the room; Hélène scoured the kitchen for tissues, but then she remembered she couldn’t afford any, so Hélène rushed to yack what she had of this ‘not butter’ in the sink. It was a violent act. Like it was pretty bad. You’d think she’d aim for the sink, but no, her kitchen, which practically involved the rest of her apartment, was vomit central.
Hélène collapsed onto the floor. How could she have fallen for it? She dragged her hands through the now cold ash near her on the floor, contemplating everything she ever knew. Everything about the ‘not butter’ spoke to her: the yellow brick tub in the shape of a butter stick, nothing artificial about that, and the pastoral plains that go on for ages that told her the cows are free, which, of course, screams ‘butter’ to her. Butter that she ate all her life, butter that made her who she was. The French cows would not stand for it if they stood (it depends on how you see it; Hélène believes they’re lying). Hélène had been lied to.
She reached for the tub once again. Maybe there could be something, perhaps a little butter, to make it better. Reading with care, Hélène, after years of being an atheist, prayed, dripping with sweat, “Je vous salue, Marie.” Her very Roman Catholic mother would be proud.
“American…American?? AMERICAN HEART ASSOCIATION???”, Hélène yelled.
Pigeons flew off her roof. You would think a heart association certification would mean something. Of course, this was the work of the ‘Americans.’ All they eat for breakfast, after all, is bacon and then more bacon with, finally, a side of BACON—it’s so not good for their cholesterol. Everything they’ve been telling her is a lie. Hélène wants to believe…but she cannot believe it must be butter.
She gradually got up from the floor, trying to put herself back together. She brushed her hair back and pulled out another cigarette only to light it. Step by step, being as brave as Hélène could, she put the tub back, clearing this traumatic moment from her memory. After shutting the refrigerator door and hearing its comforting old broken hum, she hopes that by the next morning, she will finally believe it is not butter.