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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.
It’s unquestionably worth it.
He reaches out and takes it, puts it to his lips,
Jean watches him, bright-eyed, until the wine is gone.
When Valentine has swallowed the last of it -- and he watches him swallow, too, tracking the motion of his throat -- he strikes up a light and bubbly conversation, carrying on a cheerful line of patter about classic slapstick comedy and art restoration and the season's weather in Bordeaux, all of it mildly entertaining and none of it requiring any particular input from his companion.
He still does his best. He’s very quick-witted, if slightly slowed already by two glasses of wine on an empty stomach.
This is a pleasant surprise. He'd counted on a show, not conversation.
Eventually their food arrives. Jean is only briefly tempted to make a pretense of saying grace, to make Valentine wait those extra long seconds.
It’s unclear whether Valentine would hear him, if he did.
He cuts into the meat with hands almost trembling with desire.
It's incredible -- the boy is so clearly so hungry, and at the same time this so clearly goes beyond mere hunger.
To draw it out, he makes conversation, requiring answers from Valentine between every bite -- how long has he worked at Le Boulevard? is he familiar with any of Jean's oeuvre? was he born here, or abroad?
He manages, barely, to pause politely for conversation every time.
He’s been at the restaurant for the last year, and grateful for it — he’s familiar with a film or two of Jean’s, but less than he’d like — he was technically born here, but traveled with his parents until he was old enough to return on his own.
And, between answers —
Jean is acutely aware that he could take this boy into the bathroom and fuck him, and his companion would probably consider it a fair price for dinner.
Instead, he mechanically moves his own food into his mouth, chews, swallows.
"You don't eat often."
Jean reaches over the table and catches his hand, turns it over to expose the bones jutting from his narrow wrist.
"Not well, nor yet poorly."
He has no way of verifying the claim; his sister won't do medical records for him unless he can produce a reason better than desperate curiosity.
"So you wouldn't be interested in lunch again next week."
“—I would. Be very much interested.”
It comes out a little too fast.
"I'll see if I can find time in my schedule."
Jean is down to the last bite of his crepes. He spears it with his fork, swirls it through the vivid yellow traces of a runny yolk, offers it across the table to Valentine.
He hesitates only a moment before leaning forward and taking it in his mouth.
It's not that Jean is attracted to this man. It's just impossible to look at that image and not perform some mental substitutions regarding the contents of his mouth.
Jean lays down his fork and signals for the bill.
No dessert. Not this time. This has been enough self-indulgence.
(He has to leave something for him to earn.)
Jean pays the bill, tips generously, smiles across the table at Valentine.
"May I offer you a ride home?"
"My pleasure."
His car is incongruous -- a lime-green, beetley hybrid. Jean has to shift books and papers to make room for Valentine to sit.
“—these aren’t all yours?”
He glances at a worn computer science text tucked into the back pocket of a seat.
Jean laughs, starting the engine and pulling out. "No. I keep my things neat. But no matter how many times I take them out, she brings them back in."
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