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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.
“...no, I didn’t.”
He feels like a mouse in a very small hole.
It’s almost a relief, to have someone try to pin him down this way.
"I'm told it's the most important meal of the day."
Jean helps himself to bread before Valentine can reach for it; takes his time with the butter knife, making him wait.
“So I’ve heard.”
He folds his hands firmly in his lap, and waits and waits and waits and waits.
Eventually -- his bread adorned with perfect artistry, covered by a smooth film of perfectly even butter -- Jean has to relinquish the butter knife.
"What did you do before you worked at Le Boulevard?"
He takes the knife as soon as he wouldn’t be snatching it out of Jean’s hand.
“Was that not part of the background check?”
"My people have ... conscientious objections ... to looking into records past a name change without good reason."
“...that’s very ethical of them.”
He butters his bread surprisingly carefully, for someone as clearly ravenous as he is, and then
His money's worth already.
(He wants to take away the bread and make him beg for it.) (He crushes the thought down.)
It would be a crime to say anything until the bread is gone.
By monumental strength of will, he puts the knife down before he takes the last piece, and returns his hands again to his lap.
Jean takes the last piece, butters it, and sets to eating it -- slowly, with great relish, and with more eye contact than is perfectly appropriate.
He feels like he should — try to make conversation. Object, somehow. Look down at the menu, at least.
But he just sits there, and watches him eat.
His eyes flutter shut. He makes soft noises of pleasure.
At the end, he holds out the last bite of bread to Valentine.
His hand comes up halfway — then he thinks better of it.
He leans forward, lips slightly parted, and accepts the gift.
His fingers just brush Valentine's lower lip.
(No more. Not a moment more. No matter how sorely it tempts him.)
Every moment is worth watching.
When the waiter comes, Jean orders for both of them.
He can accept that.
He's trying, in vain, to remember what it is they were talking about before Jean Dulac put bread in his mouth.
Jean Dulac currently appears to be fascinated with his eyelashes.
"Are you wearing mascara?"
...he goes over the morning's events in his mind.
"No, I'm not."
He's not sure if this is a compliment.
"You should. Just a little, not something cheap. Sometimes lilies are meant to be gilded."
He laughs, a little self-consciously, looks aside.
"I've never known what to do about those."
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