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The young man waiting the window tables at Le Boulevard Vert is dark and slim-wristed, with a trace of some obscure accent that he chases around the French names of the dishes.
He is exceedingly polite, and quietly but firmly opinionated about the wine list, and before placing the water glasses has already identified which members of the party are left-handed.
How could he leave? Jean could still order the main course for him.
Jean does not order the main course for him. Jean eats fragrant slices of Seville orange and orders blackened scallops, watches Valentine's pale thin trembling hands and imagines them touching him.
He watches him eat. God help him.
At the end of their main course, he excuses himself a little shakily to the restroom.
(He sits there for several minutes contemplating leaving out a back door.)
The door opens and shuts.
There is a pair of familiarly exceptional shoes in the stall next to his.
…oh, no.
He doesn’t know whether it would be worse to leave now, or to stay longer.
If anything happens in the other stall, it happens in perfect silence.
(Maybe he's texting.)
The waiter asks him if he'll have smoked panna cotta with mulberries, or the mandarin tapioca with coconut foam.
He really does try to control himself.
"The panna cotta, please."
The waiter nods and disappears, just in time for Jean to return, drying his hands.
...he couldn't have taken a little longer, could he.
He tries, and fails spectacularly, not to look guilty.
The waiter returns shortly, and asks Jean for his order. He requests the tapioca.
His current conversation topic appears to be mildly entertaining anecdotes about the personal foibles of various directors, some with names Valentine may recognize.
It's fairly interesting, actually — or, he feels like it would be, if he could focus at all. But all he can think about is panna cotta.
The desserts arrive shortly. The panna cotta glistens.
Jean is inscrutable. Surprised? Annoyed? Amused? Aroused?
Ah. And this is what he waited for.
(He should take it away from him -- eat it, make him watch -- force it down his throat -- dash it to the floor -- taunt him -- make him beg--)
Jean adjusts his napkin in his lap.
He forces himself to drag it out, despite the gnawing pain in his stomach, taking tiny bites and sucking the tines of the fork clean.
(Heaven. Mercy. Perfectly smooth and creamy and melting, shot through with tartness, smoke lingering on his tongue.)
By the time he sets his fork down, the plate almost looks newly washed.
Valentine, soothed but unsatisfied, watches every bite Jean takes.
Jean finishes. The waiter brings the check.
It appears that M. Dulac is paying in cash tonight. Valentine can watch him count out the bills into three piles: the tip, his own meal, the panna cotta.
He can't bring himself to feel it wasn't worth it.
He is, however, more than a little apprehensive.
He lets Valentine take a good look at his price, before he hands it over.
"A ride home?"
The car ride is brief. There's classical music playing.
Jean stops outside Valentine's house.
Valentine thanks him, steps out of the car.
He doesn't know whether to expect Jean will come with him.
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