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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.
"Ah, Valentine," he says, mildly, after a moment, and moves to let him wash his hands.
Presently, Valentine does as well.
Are they...both going to act like nothing happened.
He is...a little less competent at it —he keeps stopping between sentences and just looking at him, trying to figure out what he could possibly say —
until the desserts arrive, and he has something else to think about.
(He starts with the pot de créme, and his tongue darts out on occasion to catch the last bit of custard on the spoon.)
Jean, picking at his own dessert, is also preoccupied.
(His eyes -- his lips -- his tongue -- he wants to make him stick it out and beg...)
The poached pears are next.
(He can hardly bear to swallow each individual bite — he can hardly bear to wait before he swallows. He shivers, a little, the first few times he does. It's all torture but he's so glad of it.)
He'd worship that face on his knees. Or make it worship him.
"Give me the last bite."
He stops.
He bites his lip, stares at the last sliver of fruit on his fork.
Then he holds it out to him.
Jean leans forward -- opens his mouth -- eats it off his fork.
Torture.
He brings his fork back, silently.
(He still sucks it clean.)
He leaves a lavish, celebratory tip on the table, sings along to a French folk song in the car.
Quietly, after hearing it once or twice, he joins him on the chorus.
(He’s about to make a very bad decision.)
Jean is nakedly delighted by this development.
When he pulls up to Valentine's apartment, he keeps the car running until the end of the song.
He opens the door, when the engine’s off, and pauses before his feet hit the ground.
“…do you have anywhere to be?”
He almost says yes, it's become such a habitual delight to deny him.
"Nowhere urgent."
He remembers the macaron — the performance — being followed into the bathroom, followed into the kitchen, hunted — the laughter — the cat pictures — the second dessert — sitting at the table hungry —
“Are you too full for coffee?”
“I think I could make room.”
He takes the keys out of the ignition. His eyes, fixed on Valentine, are very bright, a little hungry.
He leads him into the building, up the stairs.
(Is it just that he wants to end the cat-and-mouse game?)
The door opens into the living room — it’s bare, sparsely furnished but meticulously clean. The worn leather couch has a blanket and pillow folded neatly at one end.
(How much does he want to be eaten alive?)
Jean reaches out to touch the couch. There’s something intrusive about the gesture — an uninvited intimacy.
“You should have lovelier things. Better lighting.”
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