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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.
The macarons, tender little pastel pearls on a dark wooden board, are out shortly.
The macarons disappear, one by one, as Jean ruthlessly and systematically criticizes the themes, imagery, characterization, and plot beats of the script he's been given.
The executive looks like he might want to cry.
At the end, when Jean nudges his plate away, there's one perfect macaron left, poised at the edge of his plate not quite touching a smear of berry reduction.
(Jean is watching, under his eyelashes.)
Their waiter takes the plate (carefully, carefully) and departs towards the hall to the kitchen once more.
How disappointing.
Jean excuses himself, smiling, and bumbles cluelessly after him, a tipsily entitled star looking for the bathroom and ignoring employees only signs.
He’s just around the corner. He didn’t even make it all the way into the kitchen.
(The delicate merengue breaks under his teeth, yields to soft cream, wet on his lips and tongue — sweet, perfectly balanced, so light it’s almost weightless...)
His eyes are closed. He doesn’t notice him.
He doesn’t open his eyes again until he’s kissed the last spot of cream off his fingertip.
Then he opens his eyes — to set the plate aside, go wash his hands —
"Good question," he says, as if he really means it.
"...your number, I think."
He laughs, and says "I'll look forward to it" as if they've just agreed on an assignation.
Then he ambles cheerfully back to his table.
The check arrives shortly.
With it is a small matchbook, printed with the name of the restaurant.
Jean pockets it casually, and doesn't look at it until he's home.
There’s a ten-digit number written out neatly on the underside of the flap.
Three days later, he gets a text from an unknown number with a picture of a cat.
Half an hour after that, there's one more text, from the same number.
What shifts do you work? -- JD
...he has to admit, it’s a very cute cat. (Celebrities.)
He sends back a shot of his schedule for the next week.
...oh.
Already worth it.
On Tuesday, at 11 AM, that’s where he’ll be.
His celebrity host is forty-five minutes late, dashing and cheerful, dressed to the nines but carrying his jacket over his shoulder to show off his trimly tailored waistcoat and vivid cerulean shirt. The wind-tousel of his hair is suspiciously photogenic, and a careful eye can spot the rouge that gives his cheeks that flush of adventure.
"Ah! You're here already, excellent."
He’s as sharply dressed as he can be, given his budget — no two pieces from a set, but all fit perfectly to him, probably the result of careful thrifting and the services of a tailor.
“I always forget whether Los Angeles time springs forward, or falls back.”
"No, you don't. Your manager says you've never once been late to your shift."
The host recognizes Jean and ushers them to an out-of-the-way table, where pleasant low light filters in through a vine-covered window.
“...have you been running a background check? Will I need a personal reference?”
He takes his seat.
"You don't have any. You live alone; you spend most of your waking hours at work. All of your colleagues agree you're excellent at what you do, but none of them would call you a friend. You don't have a regular boyfriend. If you have family, my background check was too polite to find them."
He delivers his little speech casually, scanning the drinks menu as he speaks.
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