Forever, Yours ➹ Timothée Chalamet

2 | Butter Sticks & Butterflies

VERA

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PARIS IN THE MORNING, IS TRULY A PRETTY THING.

It's like that feeling of waking up in a hotel. You forget where you are at first, but then that feeling of 'yeahhhh, I like this' hits you like a truck and you wake with a smile. The best part is pushing open the giant mahogany doors of your apartment building, hearing the cars honking, the people chattering, the smell of what seemed to be mocha as you passed round the block, and the occasional puff of cigarette smoke floating out of an alley.

Chicago had the same things, but Paris had spice.

It's the seasoning on a bland piece of chicken, or the cinnamon on whipped cream. Or should I say, 'the crème de la crème'?

As I crossed the street blindly, half-aware of my surroundings and half-tired, I let my mind run over yesterday night's conversation. I felt self-proclaimed on my promise to start learning French as quickly as I could, but a cram session seemed unlikely to get me any further than I was today.

Toni distracted me with her tales of photoshoots and lunch dates instead, but ended up begging for a crumb of my day towards the end of it. I ended up giving her a whole bread loaf.

Specifically about counting coins, and meeting a stranger in the afternoon. A confusing boy named Timothée, to be specific—which made Toni prod me with phrases like 'describe him! Spill!'—and I spent five minutes trying to do him the slightest bit of justice. It wasn't that I cared for him in that way, it just felt strange to call him such simple words for such a...

...well, he wasn't a very simple person it seemed.

Besides his confusing personality and concise words, his physical being was far more picturesque for simple traits like 'cute' or 'handsome'. There was just something so indescribable. Something only I could know, because only I had felt it at that moment.

Or maybe I did know the words, I just gated them off from the rest of the world, because I wanted the feeling to be mine alone. Selfishness, hidden in my very mind undetected.

But I settled for the word pretty.

The rest of the night was a blur, a mixture of sandwiches and colas, and I found myself walking into Plaisirs De Bella's with a smile on my face the very next day.

Bella noticed when I walked in, a smile growing on her face as she exclaimed a loud greeting. Just like yesterday, she had her yellow apron donned, but this time her hair was kneaded back into two tight dutch braids. She beamed. "Bonjour, Vera!"

"Bonjour, Bella," I greeted in return, "comment est le temps?"

That meant 'how is the weather'? I picked it up in my travel book last night as I was cramming to learn new things. I'll admit, my accent needed work, but I let myself bask in momentary pride—I actually said a sentence in French that wasn't 'hello'.

But Bella crushed my pride with a laugh.

"Très bien, I see you're improving," she noted, motioning for me to follow her behind the counter, "although I believe the question is unnecessary, considering you have just come in from outside."

I faltered a grin, shuffling behind the counter of the bakery with haste. It was too early for any reasonable customers to walk in, those who didn't have their own troubles keeping them wide awake, so Bella set to work, telling me things I needed to do. Place bread in a basket, put this basket in the display window, set out trays to put fresh pastries on, and help get the shop up and running. There would be a morning rush that was about to come streaming through the door, according to her.