Her Name was Sophie

Ever see those anime fangirls or fanboys (I don't discriminate, so shall we call them fanhumans or fanpeople now?) who are just obsessed with Japanese culture and would do anything to move to Japan without even going past the stereotypical behavior or culture? They always tend to be American too (of course this is just coming from my own personal experience in which most the people I know are American) well I wanted to write a story about someone with those fanhuman characteristics and turn it up to eleven! Sophie is a woman from France who can't afford to move to America, but she will do anything to make it seem like she's from there.


Her name was Sophie, her belt said Steve. It was her favorite buckle. She made sure
everyone knew of her American boyfriend Steve, how much he loved her, and that the Atlantic
between them could never separate their eternal souls. He made it especially for her between his
shifts in the oil fields, going behind his boss’ back to use the tool shop. She was forever his.
She said she was American, and she sure as hell made sure her appearance vouched for
her. The belt snuggly held her Wrangler jeans to her tall frame. Half tucked into beltline was an
orange-and-red plaid shirt. Brown boots clacked after every step she took as she anxiously
strutted down the Paris streets towards her apartment.

She had recently moved to Paris into a small apartment overlooking an equally small
park. After moving in she made sure to tell anything with a pulse that she was from America,
Chicago specifically. When they questioned her about her perfect French, she would respond
saying that she was pressured to learn French at a young age by her parents. If they interrogated
further about her authentic accent she said she was a theater prodigy who was training for a
leading role of Les Miserables, never saying which one.

A cardboard package greeted her in front of her apartment door. “To Sophie, from
America with Love,” the package read, surrounded in a giant heart. She never received packages,
save the belt buckle, only letters. Typically upon receiving postage from her American lover she
would launch a crusade across her floor, reading aloud in an odd mixture of English and French
to each and every tenant whether they opened their doors or not. But today she didn’t bother
sharing the precious package. Instead she dashed into her apartment, slamming the door behind
her.

She chunked Steve’s belt buckle aside as if it were an old toy she didn’t care for anymore,
she didn’t care if her pants fell to the floor. Within the contents of the small brown box was her
long awaited gift. Like a child on Christmas morning too eager to wait for her parents, her hands
clawed their way into the heart of the box, producing brown confetti within their wake. When the
content had revealed itself to her, her heart stopped: it was love at first sight, again.
Within the heart laid belt buckle with a different name, a name she found quite charming,
the perfect American name. Each letter was cut from brass, their precision impeccable, perhaps
too precise. An easy fix. She took a hammer to its face in an act to prove the buckle was
handmade. Afterwards she inspected the back. On the backend was the serial number 839, she
doubted anyone would notice it, but to be on the safe side shaved away the number with her
fingernail file. Her work was complete. She held the buckle up into the ceiling light above,
grinning at her masterpiece.

Steve no longer existed anymore, she hadn’t worked out the details. Perhaps she would
tell her friends that Steve cheated on her; or that the distance drove them apart; or that he died in
a tornado of fire as oil erupted beneath his feet blowing him sky high as he took a casually
smoked a cigarette a tad close to the drill, she liked that one. She had a new American man now,
who sweetly took her into his arms, and gave her his own special buckle to comfort her after
Steve had betrayed her/ emotionally abandoned her/ died/ whatever. Anxiously she fiddled with
the new buckle until it finally gave a satisfying snap. Taking a heel-face turn to the mirror behind
her, she dazed at her reflection. Her grin lifted like a stage curtain revealing an ensemble of teeth.
She couldn’t wait to show everyone her new handmade buckle. Within the frame of the mirror,
was a white strip of paper laying onto of the mutilated box, was a receipt with her name on it.
Her name was Sophie, her belt said John.