This post has the following content warnings:
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.
He glances at it – then palms it, carefully and silently, and excuses himself to the bathroom.
He's gone a little longer than he should be, caught in the mirror both before and after.
His lips are dark, when he returns to his seat.
"Lovely," Jean says, brief and appraising, before handing Valentine the menu he's been looking at. "Would you rather the hiramasa or the dover sole?"
He looks down at the menu, to study his options.
“…I’ve never eaten hiramasa.”
Jean nods, and folds the menu.
"You buy a lot of groceries, for someone who eats so little."
"Is it really a background check, after the first time?"
He sounds genuinely thoughtful.
Sure, why not.
“It doesn’t seem like you would have the time to follow me personally.”
"Certainly not!"
He has the time. He's done the calculations on that three times this week. But he's being good.
“So…how do you…”
It feels ridiculous to even ask these questions.
"That would be telling."
Credit card statements. And the bodega on the corner next to Valentine's apartment takes cash, so he blackmailed the owner.
“…I practice often,” he says, taking the path of least resistance.
He's evading the question. But he does it so prettily, Jean has to let it lie.
"What have you cooked lately?"
“A few things — I’ve been on crepes for weeks. I just can’t seem to get the timing exactly right.”
"Tell me."
Jean will listen in fascination to Valentine's cooking stories, until the waiter takes their orders.
(He orders Valentine the Dover sole.)
…ah.
He watches the waiter walk away.
Just a miscommunication. He wasn’t exactly clear.
He has enough material gleaned from the chefs at Le Boulevard to last them some time. He seems to watch them almost obsessively, trying to glean whatever secrets he can from ten minutes here and ten seconds there.
Jean's interest doesn't waver. (He watches Valentine's lips, more often than his eyes.)
Eventually there is food. Jean's monkfish is probably delicious. He wouldn't know.
The sole is, luckily, incredible. It nearly falls apart in his mouth, rich and tender and perfect.
He tries not to stain the food with his lipstick — he opens wide, and takes very careful bites, coaxing the food off the fork with his tongue.
The touch of color really does make the picture perfect.
He wants to tell Valentine to lick the plate -- to bend over, there at the table, put his face to it like an animal for one more taste of the sauce. He wants to find out if Valentine would do it.
"Would you like dessert?" he asks, instead.
(There's no price for it. He won't make Valentine suck him off in the bathroom, to earn it, or touch him under the table, or even go into the bathroom once more and come back to give Jean his underwear. But he wants to enjoy the moment where Valentine thinks there might be, and decides whether to ask for it anyway.)
View Flat HTML
View Metadata
Search Post
