Page 6 - 3FrenchHens

6 three french hens, two macarons, and lovers in a bakery

seriously, Margot joined the herds of people below, knowing that so many of the women,
like herself, were taking the ritual walk of shame, dressed in evening clothes, ridden like
ponies the night before, and only slightly convinced that their male counterparts were going
to call them anytime in the near future. Margot at least had the satisfaction of knowing
her boyfriend was rich and that, even without a call, he would deliver what was now the
customary dozen roses and the latest pair of Christian Louboutin from the designer himself
who was unaware that his beautiful heels and their signature lipstick red soles had become
the currency in the hiring of prostitutes for Paris’s elites.

Margot rode the elevator up to her small flat in the Le Marais corner of Paris. Despite
Aubin calling her building “an eyesore that even the fucking bohemians don’t appreciate,”
she loved her home and its quirkiness. She loved the cobblestone paths, the lights that
flickered on and off depending on the weather, and the artsy types that littered the stairs in
front with their never ending rhymes and friendly yet intense banter. Unlike her ultra-rich
boyfriend, Margot didn’t come from a lot of money and she could appreciate things for
more than just a luxury price tag. She always considered her family just above average, but
so did eighty percent of Paris. She took after her mother, being careful about the money
she spent on necessities, like living expenses and food, saving every cent she could so that
each season she could buy one designer outfit. Her mother was dedicated in this endeavor
and, considering the 76 years she spent committed to her closet, boasted a wardrobe that
often left people, even her closest friends, under the impression that her husband made a
lot of money – he did not.
Margot’s father was a writer, and not a very good one at that. He was incredibly smart, and
probably could have been a doctor or a lawyer or a surgeon for all she knew, but he loved
to write and was stubborn enough to not let the temptation of money or success take him
away from his craft. As a girl, Margot remembered listening to her father expound on his
ideas for his latest novels. All of them started out great, but that was exactly the problem.
None of his stories, despite their bright beginnings, had ends. When Margot asked her
father why he never finished what he was working on, he would smile and say, “How am I
to know where everyone is supposed to end up? I breathe life; I don’t end it.” He would
pull Margot towards him, plant his lips on her forehead, and pretend like he was blowing
out the candles on a birthday cake. “There! My daughter, live!”

She looked into her closet in her bedroom. She had a long way to go. But, looking up
towards the ceiling as if to see what her mother thought, she knew that she was doing a
good job of making her mom proud. She picked out her clothes for work later that day and
slipped off the straps of her dress. Heading to the bathroom naked, past the hungry eyes of
her little black and white cat that would have to wait just a bit longer for breakfast, Margot
paused, catching a glimpse of herself in the hall mirror. Life was pretty good, she thought.
Not perfect, but sensing that Aubin was going to propose to her sometime this spring,
most likely on their trip to Ibiza, she felt like perfection wasn’t too far away. She loved
Aubin, despite his sometimes aloof behavior, and she knew that he was in love too. Getting