LIKE BUTTER IN THE HEAT

“If I had a broken-heart gallery, it’d have chaffed pieces of your dirt-brown eyes…” Molly’s fingers traced subliminally on the thick spine of ‘Like Butter in the Heat’, a dark romance anthology from her favorite author and writer. She muttered the lines in tones astute to her ears alone, her gaze soft yet gleaming with excitement and subtle expectations that carefully tucked away the shimmer of bitterness that surfaced ever so often. “…stolen away by fragrances of time; murals in retrospect to your stupid uncombed hair; and carcasses foreshadowing your perfectly sculpted visage.” Molly recited the lines by heart, an act borne of the near innumerable times she had flipped the pages cover to cover. She would often sigh, heart-tugging with flits of images that charred the serenity of her mind. “If I had a broken-heart gallery, it would be throbbing yet gray, reeking of the archaic-ness of the cinders that we parted with.” She closed her book, her eyelids nearing a thin line, a squint that furthered the self-deprecating smile that skidded her face. Gobbling down composure, Molly had her temples leaned against the deck window, her attention shifting from the somberness of ‘like butter in the heat’ to the fleet of clouds scurrying past her like maddened masquerades at a carnival. The white fluffs of water seemed free and jolly to her, a direct contrast to the knot she’d personally kneaded unto her heart. “Good afternoon passengers. This is your captain speaking.” PSA from the flight cabin came bearing white flags, wrestling Molly into sobriety. Looking away from the cabin window, she stared ahead, her mind suddenly unwrapped a canvas upon which was an oil painting of what she imagined the pilot to be: valiant with a cape flailing behind him and his white underwear fashioned atop his trousers. He stood bare-chested; smug as he steered the airplane through a sea of meteorites. Molly giggled, and her mood lightened. A thorough decision to bring that image to life the first moment she gets on land. Shoving the comical thoughts down, Molly turns her attention to the pilot’s announcement, a palpable excitement glowing with her smile. “First I’d like to welcome everyone to Delta Airlines Flight 83A.” The pilot speaks. “We are currently cruising at an altitude of 33,000 feet at an airspeed of 400 miles per hour. The time is 10:17 am. The weather looks good and with the tailwind on our side, we will be landing in Paris Charles de Gaulle Airport, Paris, in approximately fifteen minutes.” Molly could sense the contentment in the pilot’s voice, and pride for successfully birthing a blissful travel. “Enjoy the rest of your time with us.” The PSA ended and Molly’s chest began to pound viciously, she was just a sliver away from screaming ‘Paris, baby!’ but then her self-control kicked in and she refrained from making regrettable memories. In respect to the pilot’s words, the airplane descended on the fifteenth-minute mark. It took a moment for Molly to haul her handbag and jack over her shoulder with one hand, while the other pulled her luggage across the airport floor. A galore of emotions whistled past her as she cut through crowds. It was July and the weather was good; a perfect tourist-acclaimed weather: summer, the heat, the nonchalance that filled the air, and the need for a good pair of lingerie. In her brown suede boot, a bright yellow satin dress tinged in dull red and white flower petals, and the French monotonous red beret making a slant to the sides of her face while permitting the full length of her braids down, Molly strode forward searching for her chauffeur who should be holding a cardboard paper with her name boldly italicized with a sharpie. Ahead stood a middle-aged man in brown khaki shorts and a tank top, a flat cap on his head as he loudly called out “Molly Carter from America, Molly Carter!” Although his scream was a bit pitched, he didn’t seem out of place as there were a dozen other people calling out to those they waited for. Molly waved at him from a distance, and after confirming that Molly was who he had waited for, he smiled and began waving back at her fully enthused. She giggled and waved on for a moment before stopping. “ Hi, I’m Molly, Molly Carter.” Stopping directly in front of him, Molly smiled as she introduced herself. “Hello, Miss Molly. I am Andrea, your —comment l’appelez-vous, uhmm— your chauffeur. Driver, yes driver.” He smiled as he mulled over the lines he had rehearsed off the internet the night before, making him sound a bit automated. “Comment allez-vous madame —Oh, oh sorry—how are you Madame Molly? Welcome to Paris.” Appreciating the effort of this French man, Molly giggled in delight before responding. “Pas mal encore, monsieur” leaving the man mildly surprised, before he gestured in a direction and leading towards it, and Molly followed him. They both arrived at his cab, entered, and were immediately voyaging ahead. Molly’s eyes were already shuffling through the view of Paris that wasn’t from a postcard or i********:, Molly`s senses were alive with the vibrant energy of the city. But her reverie was abruptly interrupted when she heard Andrea scream: “Petite b***h!” Andrea suddenly screamed, cursing loudly; his right foot immediately leaped off the accelerator and fiercely planted it against the brake, both his arms twisting the steering wheel that fought aggressively against going any more left in accordance to Andrea’s will. The sudden shift nearly had Molly bashing her face against the window. After being dangerously startled, she gave Andrea who apparently was fuming a questioning look, nearly cursing at him. Amidst grumbling, the action of Andrea making a sharp cut to the left side of the road falls into her line of sight. The vehicle ahead had made a sudden stop, which had in turn provoked Andrea’s act of cutting off the gas before navigating the vehicle to make a sharp swerve around the one upfront. There was a violent disarray in the cab upon the sharp swerve; the wreck-it-ralph figurine accessorizing the dashboard was the first to topple over. With it was the empty latte cup hosted in the cup holder between the front seats, hoisted directly at Molly seated behind; an entangled pair of crochet gloves, a receipt, and a sleek black card the size of an average postcard, all spun in a barraging attack at Molly. Dropping her window immediately Andrea had made a successful eversion, Molly stuck her face out and bellowed. “Stupid cunt!” she cursed at the car motionless behind her. Successfully expunging some of her indignance, Molly settled as her eyes traced zig-zag on the new companions on the floor keeping her company, finally settling on a black card with silver engravings. She pulled the card to her face, reading out the bold words on it. “Noir…Noir?” Molly flipped the card around questioningly, her gaze lingering on a name in a smaller font. “Mathieu Archambault…” Although she had no personal impression of the name, it left a lingering aftertaste as though she must have had a casual encounter with the name in time past.“Enfin nous y sommes.” Andrea loudly declared their arrival, breaking Molly’s gaze from the name on the black card as well as tossing the thoughts about it to the back of her head.