A Melody

November 26, 2007
By
A melody by Christina Aguilera filled her ears. “6:30 already?” Meg thought, remembering that the song was not only her ring tone, but also her alarm clock that forced her to push blankets off of her body and to the side of the bed. After slowly putting on a soft purple robe and white slippers from Bloomingdales, she walked down the stairs and into the kitchen to make a piece of toast. It was an every day ritual. Meg knew the way she liked her toast. Not too burnt, but crisp enough. And the butter had to be spread exactly the way she liked it, deeply absorbed by the rye bread.
The toaster was on dark instead of medium, the way Meg always had it. Out of force of habit, she didn’t even look at the toaster and just pushed down the knob on the old fashioned, yet extremely new machine. When the toast came out, she saw it was much more toasted than usual; it was not perfection. There was no bread left in her drawer. Not knowing what to do, she started to cry. I mean, can you honestly blame her? There was no more bread left! “Okay,” she thought, as she calmed herself, “at least I can spread my butter.” She opened the refrigerator and to her dismay, there was no butter, only jam.
Meg had such a lavish lifestyle; everything always had to be fit to perfection. One thing out of place and her whole world came crashing down. Meg was rich and naïve, and could care less about others around her. Something like no butter left in the refrigerator should have made the world crumble and everyone should have stopped their lives to replace the “stupid butter”. Shockingly, no one halted. Meg’s younger brother came down the stairs dressed in his Ralph Lauren Polo and designer Jeans, grabbing a granola bar and heading off to school. Her mother stayed in her warm bubble bath, and her father was heading out to his office uptown.
The last person remaining in the kitchen was the family’s maid, Rosa. She stood by the table making two mimosas; one for herself, and one to bring to Meg’s mother. Meg sobbed, pitying herself. “Meg?” Rosa said. Meg gave the maid a horrible look; Meg thought the maid should be doing everything possible to help her during this tragedy.
Rosa raised her glass towards the sky. “Here’s to you, Meg Roberts. To everything you’ve become and everything that you will hopefully learn in time.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” said Meg, still with the same expression of disgust.
All Rosa did was smile, drink her mimosa, and walk out of the kitchen to give Meg’s mother her drink.





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